


Fallen Idols

by Jenksel



Category: The Librarians (TV 2014)
Genre: AU, Angst, Arthurian characters, Casskins, F/M, Human Sacrifice, Lovecraftian Monster(s), Married Casskins, Violence, Whump, medieval warfare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 22:43:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15129341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenksel/pseuds/Jenksel
Summary: A face from Jenkins's past surfaces in Portland looking for revenge, with Cassandra caught in the middle.





	1. Prologue

August, the Year of Our Lord 1210   
Town of Bram, Region of the Occitaine, France

Galahad was a weary man. 

He’d spent the last seven hundred years trying to come to terms with his ‘new’ reality, his immortality. He had struggled over the centuries to find his place in this new world, but where was an immortal’s place here, exactly? Where did he belong, exactly, now that Camelot was nothing but a faded memory, now that everyone he had ever known or loved or even hated had long ago turned to dust in their graves? Well, nearly everyone.

He’d been a knight of renown once—the Best Knight in the World, the only man worthy enough to find and touch the Holy Grail. Sometimes he cursed the day he found that most holy of relics. He could still feel the cool metal of the cup as it touched his lip, could still feel the shaking of his hands, the thundering of his heart. The searing, blinding pain as his mortality was burned from every cell of his body. The numbing, terrifying panic on the day that he clearly understood for the first time that he was going to live forever.

Over the last several centuries he had also been a lowly foot soldier, a scout, and a despised mercenary. He’d been a hermit, a farmer, a tradesman, a merchant, a brothel keeper. He’d been a slave, a tramp, a beggar, a pilgrim. He’d even been a monk for a time, God forgive him. He’d tried losing himself in the most populous of cities, isolating himself in the most barren of deserts, and everywhere in between. Wherever he went, he had made friends, enemies, lovers. He’d traveled the world in search of peace for his spirit, for his soul, but found that there was none for the likes of him. 

It was always the same in the end—they all died, yet he lived on. Every few decades he would have to pack up and move before anyone became suspicious, begin a new life somewhere else, become someone else. Eventually he stopped making friends, stopped taking lovers. Leaving them behind, watching them grow old and die off one by one, saying goodbye—it simply became too painful. It was much easier to hold himself aloof, to build a thick, high wall around himself, to harden his heart against the world, otherwise he would go mad. He’d always been on the outside, anyway, had never really been a part of any one group or family. It was his Fate as the Grail Knight, he convinced himself. Never to love, never to be loved. He would always be alone. Each passing year only served to confirm that belief for him.

Every few decades he would see history tiredly repeat itself over and over again. The wars, the invasions, the rhetoric, the politics. One nation enslaving another, crowing about its superiority, only to be enslaved in its own turn by another ‘superior’ nation. One people conquering another people, citing the wills of their gods or whatever as the justification for it. The plagues and famines that killed by the hundreds and thousands. The oppression, the misery, the poverty. It was grindingly relentless, it never ended, never changed, no matter how hard he hoped or fought for it.

Things just never changed.

And still, Galahad lived on.

Eventually he returned to the life he knew best, was most comfortable in, that of a knight, a horse soldier. He now went by the name ‘Sir Thomas of Leicester’, a minor, humble knight under fealty to Simon de Montfort, the 5th Earl of Leicester in England and Baron of Montfort l'Amaury in Normandy. De Montfort had inherited his English lands through his mother, but had never set foot in England himself. He still demanded that fealty be sworn to him by the knights that had served his late uncle, the previous earl, however, and Galahad dutifully swore the oath, not expecting this earl to be any more ambitious than the last. He enjoyed the fairly quiet, bucolic life that the fourth earl had preferred, the only excitement being the usual round of tournaments that knights were expected to attend and participate in.

But the new earl was anything but quiet and bucolic. De Montford was fervently religious, Galahad soon found out, and the earl soon took up the cross and joined the Fourth Crusade to free the Holy Land from the infidels. He ordered his vassal knights to accompany him, and so Galahad found himself a very reluctant Crusader. Fortunately, his liege refused to accompany the politically and financially motivated Venetian-led campaign when it unexpectedly diverted to Constantinople, so Galahad was spared having to witness the sacking of that city by his brother knights. The rest of the world was shocked and outraged by the atrocities that occurred in that beautiful, cultured city, but Galahad was mostly numb to it. How many cities had he seen pillaged and razed to the ground in his life so far? He’d lost count long ago.

But in the years after the Crusade, De Montfort became increasingly fanatic in his Catholic orthodoxy, so much so that when the Bishop of Rome called for a crusade against the heretic Cathars in southern France, Galahad was not at all surprised when the earl again gathered his knights and took them south. What did manage to surprise the jaded knight was the utter brutality and mercilessness that was visited upon the people of the Languedoc and Occitaine regions of France, Cathar and Catholic alike, noble and peasant.

Such as those the unfortunate Galahad had witnessed over the last year, beginning with the massacre at Béziers. It had been nothing short of a bloodbath—thousands upon thousands of innocent men, women and children, regardless of their creed, had been butchered, tortured or maimed with no pity. Seven thousand souls alone had been forcibly dragged from the sanctuary of the Church of St. Mary Magdalene, where they had fled for safety, and slaughtered in the city square like livestock. When an aide had asked the commander of the expedition, the Cistercian abbot Arnaud-Amaury, how they could separate out the faithful Catholics from the heretic Cathars, Galahad had heard with his own ears as the commander blandly responded, “Kill them all; the Lord will recognize His own”. 

As if that wasn’t bad enough, the city had then been looted and burned to the ground as the various factions of the invading Catholic army squabbled over the blood-soaked plunder like hyenas fighting over a carcass. Such barbarism had shaken the normally unconcerned Galahad to his core. The Grail Knight could still hear the screams and the tearful pleas for mercy of the dying in his sleep, what little he got these days. It was the first time in his life that he had ever considered breaking his knightly oath and becoming a deserter.

And now here he was, a year later, reliving that hellish day all over again, this time in the Occitaine to the west of Béziers, in the town of Bram.

The Catholic forces of De Montfort had chased some refugees of the Béziers massacre to the town of Minerve. Before capturing and burning them at the stake, the earl extracted several confessions from repentant Cathari in Béziers, stating that the towns of Minerve and Bram were both strongholds of the heretics, but that there was more than simple heresy taking place in Bram. A handful of the condemned had sworn that a black-hearted demonic cult was in Bram, a cult that involved human sacrifice, and from whom the Cathari stayed as far away from as possible. To De Montfort it made no difference—any doctrine other than Catholicism was of Satan, and therefore must be wiped from the face of the earth.

After a six-week long siege, the city of Minerve surrendered. The Cathari inside who refused to recant their heresy and return to the one True Church were burned at the stake. Again, De Montfort heard tales of black magic, demon-worship and human sacrifice taking place in Bram, and so he moved his army westward.

Now Galahad was running through the chaotic streets of Bram on this awful, moonless night, dodging the fleeing residents as they frantically tried to escape the invaders. He and a small squad of five knights had been sent by the earl to reconnoiter the abandoned church of St. Denis on the outskirts of Bram, destroyed some years ago by a fire and never rebuilt. The earl had received intelligence from some of the leading citizens of the town that there was indeed a demonic cult in Bram, and that it perversely celebrated its vile rites in the ruined church. He was told that not only did it practice human sacrifice, but that the offerings often consisted of children, even infants. 

The Norman commander was now very keen on being able to report to his superiors that he had purged not just one, but two different nests of heretics from the region. He ordered Galahad to pick his men and investigate. The knight was glad to go; he’d just been forced to watch as scores of townspeople were rounded up by the crusaders, then methodically have their eyes gouged out and their tongues cut out. All of them save one man—he was left with one good eye, so that he could lead the other pitiful victims to the next town as a warning to the heretics there of what was to come if they refused to repent of their sins. It was a sickening sight, even to the cynical Galahad.

The knights located the ruined church easily enough. It crouched on the very edge of the town, lifeless, a barely visible glow coming through the windows. It was relatively quiet here, all of the residents having already fled into the surrounding forest. As they approached, the men heard an eerie, rhythmic clacking sound, as though dry bones or sticks were being struck together, accompanied by low chanting in the local Occitan dialect. The church’s glassless windows stared at the knights blankly as they approached the main doors and tried to enter, only to find the portal barred against them. The half-burned doors were weak, however, and it didn’t take much effort on the part of the heavily-armed knights to force them open. As Galahad and the others burst into the old church, a truly horrifying sight greeted them. 

A gathering of about a dozen black-robed men were gathered in the small space. All held large stones in their hands and had been striking them together, the source of the eerie sound they had heard on their approach. In the sanctuary proper of the church, behind the destroyed roodscreen, a lone figure, also wearing black and hooded, stood before the church’s stone altar. Every surface of the church’s interior had been painted black—walls, floor, altar, even what was left of the ceiling. On a plinth behind the altar, where the crucifix should’ve been, was a tall black stone, roughly oblong in shape and perhaps five feet tall, topped by the empty-eyed stare of a goat’s skull, long, cork-screwed horns jutting from its sides. 

A hollow pit opened up in Galahad’s stomach as he recognized the idol with shock and dismay. He had been there the night long ago when, through great and dreadful magic, Merlin had managed to rebind a vile, nameless spirit within it, a spirit that fed greedily on misery, fear, suffering and death. A dreadful, unnamable spirit that sought nothing less than the destruction of the world and all of humanity. It had been trapped in the stone eons ago by other powerful magicians, according to Merlin. The spirit had almost been set free by a traitor, one of Arthur’s own knights, one of his oldest comrades. A knight who had befriended Galahad and became his mentor when he first arrived at Camelot, who had gladly befriended the bastard-born boy when few others would do so. That man had almost turned this vile spirit loose upon the world; it was the only thing that Merlin had ever feared. 

But Merlin had hidden the stone and its foul spirit deep in the bowels of Arthur’s castle, protected under the most powerful wards the magician knew—How had that stone found its way here? 

The stone and the wall around it were slick and black with layers of blood, including fresh blood that had just been thrown onto it. In the dim candlelight the horrified knights could easily see the small, pale, unmoving figure of a girl-child no older than seven or eight years lying on the altar’s dark surface. Her throat had been brutally cut. Galahad knew that she had also been tortured before she had been killed—the spirit craved such things.

The tall figure whirled around as the knights entered the church. In his right hand he held a silver bowl, blood still dripping from its side. His left arm ended in a stump, just above where his wrist should’ve been. Galahad’s eyes stared at the stump.

It cannot be! 

The crusaders stared in shock for several seconds, then, forcing himself back to the present, Galahad drew his sword and pointed it at the ghastly, one-handed priest at the altar. His fellow knights followed his lead and quickly drew their own weapons.

“In the names of the King and of the Holy Father, I order you to drop your weapons and surrender!” the knight bellowed. All was still for several long minutes, then the black-robed man, eyes hidden by his hood, threw his head back and laughed in response.

“So! The Most Pure Knight of Virtue has deigned to come down from his golden throne and grace lowly Mankind with his presence!” the man gushed sarcastically with a small, mocking bow. He turned to address not only his own followers, but Galahad’s knights as well.

“Behold, crusaders and my own children—Galahad of Camelot has come!” Galahad’s stomach twisted itself into a cold knot. He quickly removed his great-helm so as to get a clear view of the man; how did he know Galahad? That voice—it sounded so familiar... 

Sweet Iesu, do not let this man be who I fear he is!

“Sir Thomas, why does he address you so?” asked one of the knights nervously of Galahad. 

“He is a madman, they are all madmen,” answered the tall knight shortly, forcing himself back to the task at hand. “What other reason could there be for abominations such as this?” Galahad indicated the gruesome tableaux behind the roodscreen.

“’Tis fortunate for him, then, that we possess the certain cure for such madness!” proclaimed another knight boldly. Before Galahad could stop him, the knight shouted a war cry and launched himself at the nearest cultist, the blade of his longsword burying itself deeply into the man’s chest. 

“No! Stop! Fall back!” Galahad shouted, but it did no good. The knights, eager for blood—and any accompanying plunder they might find—fell upon the cultists, mowing down the unarmed men like stalks of wheat. 

The leader of the cult dropped the bowl of blood with a snarl. He snatched a bloody, long-bladed knife from the defiled altar and joined the fray, making a beeline for Galahad. Along the way he almost casually stabbed one of Galahad’s men, ramming his knife’s blade through the man’s heavy mail with ease. Leaving the knife embedded in the knight’s chest, he then smoothly took the man’s sword from his hand as he fell, all the while never taking his burning green eyes off of Galahad. 

The longswords of the crusaders were difficult to wield in the tight space, but most were experienced, battle-hardened soldiers. The cultists were zealous, but they were no match for Galahad’s men, and soon the church floor was littered with black-swathed bodies. Thanks to the frightening speed and skill of the cult leader, four of the six crusaders also lay dead. 

The leader stopped just out of reach of Galahad’s blade and held up his handless arm to halt any further fighting. Galahad took the opportunity to address his remaining man, a too-young knight barely able to buckle on his own spurs. 

“Edwin, go and fetch reinforcements!” he ordered. The young man hesitated.

“Go! Now!” Galahad barked again, his dark eyes never leaving the robed figure in front of him. “I will hold him here. GO!” Edwin turned and fled the church.

“Who are you?” he demanded of the cultist, as soon as the young knight was gone. Without a word, the tall man reached up and shoved the hood from his head, revealing his thin, sallow, bearded face and a head full of long, lank, graying brown hair. The sword nearly fell from Galahad’s band as he stared in astonishment.

“Bedivere?!” 

The other man smirked, pleased that he had caught his opponent off-guard so thoroughly. 

“You recognize me; good!” he sneered. “It has been a very long time, Galahad. I am so pleased to see that you still live, though you seem a bit...careworn.” The thin man chuckled at the expression of disbelief on Galahad’s face.

“But you are surprised that you are not the only knight of Camelot to receive otherworldly gifts?” He glanced over his shoulder at the blood-soaked stone.

“How are you still alive!?” Galahad demanded hoarsely.

“The Great God has given me immortality as well, and so much more!” 

“That…thing is not a god, and you well know it!” spat Galahad contemptuously, quickly recovering from his shock. His face then took on a more conciliatory expression. “It is a demon, a spirit of pure evil that seeks only to corrupt and rule and ultimately destroy! And it has corrupted you, Bedivere, can you not see that? I tried to warn you all those years ago, when you first began to explore the realms of magic, I begged you to turn away from it, to not let the darker sides of it tempt you.” He took a step forward, lowering his sword, his voice pleading with his former friend.

“Merlin himself warned us all against this demon, yet you sought to free it! You saw yourself how close it came to destroying him, the most powerful of sorcerers! And yet you still seek to bend it to your will?” Galahad held out his free hand in a gesture of supplication. 

“The Bedivere I once knew would sooner die himself than raise his hand against a child, but look now—You now kill children for that that thing! Can you not see the difference between what you are now and what you once were?” Bedivere pointed at the younger man with his sword.

“I see that some things never change. Again, you blindly fight like a fool on the side destined to lose,” he said coldly. “Just as you did in Arthur’s day.”

“I swore fealty to Arthur,” Galahad said, roused. “I swore an oath of loyalty to my king, and you know well that a good knight does not break his oath! Nor does he steal from his lord!” Bedivere again laughed.

“Arthur was a fool,” he said blandly. “Merlin was a fool. You are still a fool. And it is no shame to abandon a fool. Excalibur was wasted on him! For all of his noble words and new beliefs in his Christian god, Arthur could not even command the loyalty of his own wife in the end, let alone his entire kingdom!” The thin man stared hard into Galahad’s eyes. 

“Have you not seen enough in your seven centuries of life to know that I was right all along? That Morgan and Mordred were right? Have not all the wars, massacres, plagues, famines, oppression, the general cruelties that man heaps upon his fellow man convinced you of that yet? Has not this latest ‘crusade’, in the name of your so-called all-loving Christ convinced you that what you call ‘Good’ simply cannot defeat what you call ‘Evil’? Or, as I prefer to call them, ‘Fantasy’ and ‘Reality’. Arthur fought and died for a fantasy—a new Christian kingdom of peace and justice and wise rule—Bah! He wasted his life on a fantasy! Look outside those doors, Galahad, and see what a Christian kingdom of peace and justice and wise rule looks like! Tell me how it is different, tell me how it is better, than what you see and condemn in here!” He waved his sword to take in the interior of the church.

“I chose, along with Morgan and Lancelot and other enlightened ones, to side with Reality!” He lowered his weapon a little and shrugged off-handedly.

“Even so, it is not too late, Galahad. You can still join us! For the sake of the friendship we once shared, I renew my offer—you and I are two of a kind now, after all. Joined, under the protection of the Great God, we could rule this world like gods ourselves! None would be able to stand against us, not even Morgan le Fay!” Galahad shook his head, an expression of disgust twisting his features.

“Your ‘god of reality’ demands too high a price for his patronage,” he snapped, nodding his head at the dead child behind Bedivere. The black-robed knight glanced backward, then laughed.

“Do not weep for her, Galahad,” he said. “The Great God has been most merciful to her. You know what Reality is like for her kind, for the peasantry, the back-breaking work, the grinding poverty. What you call a ‘demon’ has merely spared her further suffering, has actually given her life meaning by using it to ensure his own survival. Why wasn’t your Christian god as kind to her?” He raised his sword again in a defensive stance.

“What is your answer, then, Galahad? Will you join me, or shall I be forced to destroy you?”

“That may be rather difficult to do,” scoffed Galahad, preparing himself for a fight. Bedivere sighed dramatically.

“Then you are an even greater fool than your master, Arthur, was, Galahad, for not even an immortal can live without a head!” With lightning speed, Bedivere leaped forward, slashing at Galahad with a swift, backhanded stroke aimed at his neck. The knight barely dodged the blow and swung his own blade up to deflect Bedivere’s, cursing himself for removing his great-helm. 

The two fought each other hard, dodging and feinting, parrying and striking at one another unrelentingly and they stumbled amongst the bodies of the dead. Galahad was holding his own, but the long string of sleepless nights and now this strenuous activity under the weight of his armor combined to sap his strength. Where were his reinforcements? 

The cultist feinted to the right, then suddenly lunged at Galahad. The knight blocked the thrust and threw his body to the side, at the same time bringing up one foot and kicking his attacker squarely in the chest. Bedivere flew backward and slammed into a wall, then began coughing and gasping wildly for air, the wind knocked out of his lungs. Galahad raised his sword and rushed forward to finish the fight.

“Stay your hand, Galahad!” Bedivere choked out feebly, dropping his sword. “I yield! Mercy!” The knight froze in his tracks, honor demanding that he spare any who begged for mercy, certainly one who was unarmed. He approached Bedivere cautiously as the ex-knight continued to gasp and cough, his hand clutching his chest.

It was a trick. As soon as Galahad was close enough, Bedivere struck. Reaching into his robe, he yanked out a dagger, at the same time knocking Galahad’s sword-arm aside with his handless forearm. In the split-second the knight was open to attack, Bedivere thrust the dagger forward, aiming for Galahad’s stomach. Galahad saw the flash of the blade and instinctively moved just in time, so that rather than burying the blade deep into his enemy’s gut, Bedivere only managed to slice deeply into the lower portion Galahad’s left ribcage. 

Galahad cried out in pain and surprise, staggered back and tripped over one of the dead cultists, fell to the cold stone floor. The dagger had gone through his armor as though it were made of muslin, and the wound it made burned like fire as his blood rushed out of it. Scrambling further backward while he clamped his left hand over the gash, he realized that he’d been struck with a magical weapon. His eyes fell on the dagger clutched in Bedivere’s hand, and for the second time that night he was shaken as he instantly recognized it: It was Carnwennan, King Arthur’s dagger, lost since Arthur’s final defeat at Camlann. His stunned eyes flicked up to Bedivere’s gloating face, the cultist slowly getting to his feet.

“You did not actually think I would take Excalibur but leave Carnwennan behind, did you?” he asked, replacing the dagger into its sheath beneath his robes. “If so, then you are indeed an idiot.” He quickly picked up the longsword and was upon Galahad in the blink of an eye. He raised the weapon high over his head in preparation to strike off the knight’s head. 

With a shout, Galahad rolled onto his knees while swinging his sword upward with all of his strength. It was an awkward maneuver, but an incredibly lucky strike, the tip of his blade catching Bedivere squarely across his neck and cutting into it deeply. Blood instantly gushed out of the gaping wound, soaking the cultist’s robes and raining onto Galahad. Bedivere, shocked by the turn of events, dropped his weapon and clutched futilely at his throat with his one hand. His face twisted into a voiceless, bloody mask of rage as he lashed out like a striking serpent at Galahad with his foot and kicked him in the face. The knight fell back against the floor, the back of his head striking the stone so hard that he was momentarily stunned, his sword slipping from his fist.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl as he waited for the deathblow that was sure to come now. He was at peace, unsurprisingly, with the idea that he was about to die. Bedivere was right about one thing: Galahad had seen far too much of the worst this life had to offer, had even willingly participated in it too much to ever hope for a chance of redeeming himself one day. Part of him instinctively wanted to fight, to survive, but he ignored that urge. Galahad closed his eyes and waited. It was all right for Death to have him now; Hell could not possibly be any worse than this cursed life...

But Death never came. The reinforcements that the stricken knight had sent for arrived at that moment, storming into the church. Bedivere’s wound still poured blood, but at the sight of the dozen or so knights that arrived to help ‘Sir Thomas’, the cult leader still took the time to glare angrily at Galahad, clearly communicating that this incident would not soon be forgotten. He contemptuously spat a mouthful of blood onto the injured knight, then turned and fled, stumbling behind the altar and through a hole in the partially-fallen rear wall of the church. How he was still on his feet, let alone how he was able to run away, Galahad didn’t know. Perhaps it was more black magic.

Young Edwin ordered the men to go after the cultist, then rushed to Galahad’s side and helped him to stand. His eyes widened at the sight of the injury to his leader’s side.

“Sir Thomas! You are wounded!” he exclaimed, bending to examine the still-bleeding injury. “I will send for the physician at once!” 

“No!” snapped Galahad, grabbing the young man’s forearm. He realized how sharp he sounded, and loosened his grip, forcing a small, reassuring smile to his face. “That is not necessary, Edwin, it is only a shallow cut. It will stop bleeding of its own accord soon enough.”

He walked slowly to the altar and looked down at the dead child. She was much like any other peasant child of this region—poorly clad, painfully thin, her small hands already rough with callouses from having to do the work of an adult. He had seen thousands of such children over the centuries, had seen them die in all manner of ways, but this was the first time he had ever seen one die as a sacrifice. Her half-closed eyes were the color of the summer sky. Galahad pulled off his gauntlet and gently closed them, then brushed the backs of his fingers against her cold, pallid cheek. He tenderly stroked her dirty red hair, as though to comfort her. He had hardened his heart over the years against such cruelties, yet this death strangely, deeply touched him, as though she was someone known to him.

“Be at peace now, little one,” he murmured. Galahad whispered a quick prayer for her soul, then turned to the quietly waiting Edwin.

“Take the child, Edwin; make arrangements for her to have an honorable burial in a churchyard. I want her washed, to have a rich burial gown, a coffin, a gravestone, a Mass—everything. I will pay for it all. Do not tell the priest how she died, only that she is a casualty of this accursed crusade.” 

“Yes, my lord,” said Edwin. “Are there any other orders, Sir Thomas?”

“Fetch men with mallets and rope,” Galahad answered shortly, casting a hate-filled gaze onto the blood-coated idol. He was determined to prevent anyone from ever offering so much as a prayer to this obscene thing ever again.

As Edwin ran to fetch the men and tools, Galahad snatched a longsword up from the church floor and struck the goat’s skull from the top of the black pillar. It cracked as it struck the floor. Galahad walked over to it, and stomped on it angrily over and over, crushing the dry bone beneath his heel.


	2. Chapter 2

July 27, 2018 CE

The Annex of the Library

Portland, Oregon

 

The clock in the lab softly chimed out the time, three o’clock in the afternoon.  At the sound Jenkins sat upright on his stool and stretched his back, stiff from being hunched too long over his work.  He did a double-take at the wall clock, then checked his watch.  It confirmed the wall clock’s time; it _was_ now three o’clock in the afternoon!  He’d become so engrossed in his work that he’d completely lost track of the time.  Again. 

He jumped up and quickly stripped off his lab coat before rushing out of the lab and on to the bedroom.  He and Cassandra had special dinner plans for this evening.  There was a total lunar eclipse taking place tonight over most of Europe, and Cassandra wanted to go and see it.  They decided to make an evening of it, starting with a leisurely dinner at their favorite restaurant in Barcelona, then they were going to drive to the beautiful, rugged Montserrat Mountains to the west of the city to view the eclipse, totality set to happen in the wee, romantic hours of the morning, Barcelona time.  Jenkins surprised her with an overnight stay and breakfast in a nearby Spanish castle, much to her glee, and she would doubtless want to do some shopping in Barcelona before returning to Portland.  It was already nine o’clock in Spain now, and he wasn’t even dressed yet!  Cassandra was going to be very cross with him for forgetting the time again.

“Cassandra?” he called out as he rushed into the bedroom, his tie already removed, his suspenders down and several shirt buttons undone.  “I’m running late again, I know—so sorry, my dear, so sorry!  I got caught up in my lab work again and I—“  He stopped, his shirt unbuttoned and untucked.  Silence.

Cassandra wasn’t in the bedroom, and she made no answer from her suite.  Jenkins quickly checked her dressing and sitting rooms and the bathroom, then his own rooms.  Nothing.  She wasn’t here.

Perplexed, the immortal slowly resumed undressing.  Where could she be?  She wasn’t in the workroom, he would’ve seen her as he passed through it on the way to the bedroom.  Perhaps she was somewhere else in the Library, lost in her own work.  Perhaps _this_ time _she_ was the one who had lost track of the time?  He smiled to himself, pleased that on this occasion _he_ would get to be the offended party.  He finished dressing, putting on a black silk suit more appropriate for an evening outing, his long, lime-green tie and patterned pocket square of a darker green and pale yellow the only spots of color.  Cassandra was supposed to be wearing an emerald-green dress this evening.  Though she had never asked him to do so, he knew that she enjoyed it when he color-coordinated with her.  But by the time he was ready, with a small overnight bag packed, he still hadn’t heard from his wife.

He felt a twinge of anxiety deep in his gut as he hurried out to the workroom of the Annex.  This wasn’t like Cassandra at all, he should’ve heard _something_ from her by now.  He strode into the open room and quickly scanned it, but she still wasn’t here.  Mr. Stone and Mr. Jones were, though; Jacob had Ezekiel in a head-lock and was demanding that the younger man concede defeat in whatever squabble they were having by saying ‘uncle’. 

“Have either of you seen Cassandra?” Jenkins asked the two Librarians.  Jake looked up at the Caretaker without releasing the struggling Ezekiel from the head-lock.

“Whoa!  Jenkins!” Jake hooted.  “Those’re some fancy duds!  You and Cassie gonna go paint the town tonight?”  He released his hold on Ezekiel just enough to allow the thief to raise his head so he could see the nattily-dressed immortal.

“Whoa!” echoed the Aussie.  “Whatever town they’re painting, it’s definitely not Portland!”

“Mr. Stone, would you _please_ let go of Mr. Jones?” Jenkins ordered brusquely.  “I fear something’s wrong; I haven’t seen or heard from Cassandra all day.  She’s been looking forward to tonight all week, she wouldn’t be so careless as to be this late for it or to forget the date altogether.  I’ve tried to call her, but it goes straight into her voicemail.”  His voice became tight with concern.  “I’m beginning to fear that something’s happened to her.”

Jake released Ezekiel from the head-lock and stood up to face the taller man.  “Me and Jones have been together all day, neither of us has seen her.  When was the last time you talked to her?”

“At breakfast,” Jenkins answered, knitting his brows as he realized with a stab of panic how many hours ago that was.  “She said she was going to go into Portland to do some shopping.  She said she would only be gone a couple of hours.”  His stomach was starting to ache now.

“I’m going to go talk to Colonel Baird, perhaps she’s seen Cassandra since then.”  Without waiting for a response from two young men, Jenkins turned and headed for the corridor.

“Her and Flynn’re in the training room!” Jake called out after him.  As soon as Jenkins was out of sight, he resumed his ‘debate’ with Ezekiel, quickly putting the squawking younger man into another head-lock.

 

* * *

 

When Jenkins had explained the situation to the Librarian and the Guardian, Eve Baird immediately went on alert.  Neither she nor Flynn had seen the young woman that day, and she agreed with Jenkins that Cassandra would never forget the dinner date or be late without calling and letting someone know.  She dug her phone out of her jacket and hit Cassandra’s number, listening anxiously for her to pick on the other end.  After a few seconds, however, she hung up and dropped the phone back into her pocket, her faced troubled.

“Still goes straight to voicemail,” she said.  She pulled out her phone again and quickly typed out a text:  _Where R U???  Call us!_   She hit ‘send’ and slipped the phone back into her pocket.

“Come on, let’s go find the boys and put our heads together,” she said briskly.  “She’s gotta be out there somewhere and we’re gonna find her.”

 

* * *

 

The team assembled in the workroom and Eve put together a timeline, short as it was, of Cassandra’s known movements that day.

“We rose at seven o’clock this morning,” reported Jenkins.  “We had breakfast at around eight o’clock.  About forty-five minutes later, she went through the back door to do her shopping.  She said she would be gone only a couple of hours, she just had to pick up some things for our trip this evening.”  Cassandra was now missing over seven hours, and each passing minute twisted the immortal’s gut into a fresh knot of fear for his wife and her safety.

“Did she say where she was going to do her shopping?” interjected Flynn.  “Any specific stores she mentioned?  Specific items?”  Jenkins furrowed his brow as he forced himself to concentrate on the conversation he and Cassandra had had over the breakfast table that morning.

“She mentioned that she had to pick up a new pair of shoes,” he said.  “Then she was going to pick up a—“  His eyes flicked up to scan the faces of the others before continuing, choosing his words carefully. 

“—A particular article of ladies’ intimate apparel.”  He cleared his throat uncomfortably.  “For our overnight stay in Spain.”  Jake and Ezekiel hid their smirks behind their hands, and Jenkins shot them a glare as he hurried on.

“And then she was going to stop at our favorite confectioner’s to pick up some sweets.”  He looked at Baird and Carsen and waved his hands.  “That was it.  She said everything was well within walking distance, that it wouldn’t take her very long at all to run her errands.  After the confectioner’s, she was going to come straight back and help me in the lab until it was time to leave.”

“Do you know the names of the shops?” Eve asked.  Again, the Caretaker knit his brows together in concentration.

“The confectioner’s is called Molyndorp’s,” he said firmly.  “The ladies’ shop is called Lilith’s; the shoe store is something like Mallard’s or Melon’s...”  He waved his hands helplessly as he struggled to remember the name.

“Mallon’s,” provided Eve.  “I know it.”  In full Guardian mode now, she looked at each member of the team in turn as she issued orders.

“Flynn, Stone, we’re going to go downtown.  We’ll split up and ask around, see if anyone saw Cassandra or what happened to her.  Check the shops she was supposed to visit and all of the ones in between.  And don’t forget to talk to any homeless people you see.”  She next turned to Ezekiel.

“Jones, get online and see if there’s any security footage we can look at, either inside the shops or outside.”  

“On it!” Ezekiel chirped, already pulling out his phone.  Eve turned last to Jenkins.

“You stay here, Jenkins, in case she calls you or shows up on her own,” she began. The older man cut her off before she could finish.

“Please, Colonel,” he asked, his eyes anxious.  “Let me go with you and the others.  Mr. Jones is more than capable of watching things here while he’s doing his work.  If I stay here, I’ll only go mad with worry.  And we’ll cover much more ground much more quickly with four instead of three.”  He reached out and lightly laid his hand on her arm in supplication.  “ _Please_ , Colonel—let me come and help look for my wife.”  She started to refuse him, but then she saw the pleading in the older man’s brown eyes, the fear, and she relented.

“Okay, Skip,” she said softly, hoping she sounded reassuring.  “You’re right, four sets of eyes are better than three.  You wanna go change into something more comfortable before we leave?”  Jenkins vigorously shook his head.

“I’m fine, Colonel, thank you, but we’ve already lost too much valuable time as it is.”  Eve smiled grimly at the man’s eagerness to be _doing_ something.  _Once a soldier, always a soldier_ , she said to herself. 

Okay, Jenkins, fire up the door, then.  Let’s go find her.”

 

* * *

 

Three hours later, the four tired and footsore searchers met up at the location of the back door.  No one had had any luck in discovering where Cassandra had gotten to.  She had been missing nearly ten hours now.  Flynn and Jake were both wearing worried expressions; Jenkins was nearly frantic. 

“Jenkins, can you think of _any_ place she might have gone on the spur of the moment?” she asked him.  Before he could answer, though, her phone rang.

“It’s Jones,” she said, and answered it, putting it on speakerphone so the rest could hear.  “ _Please_ tell me you have something good to report, Ezekiel?” 

“Baird, you guys need to get back here.  Now.”  The tone of the Aussie’s voice sent a chill through Eve’s chest.  “We’ve had a visitor.”

“Have you heard anything from Cassandra?” demanded Jenkins loudly.  Eve laid a calming hand on his shoulder.

“What visitor, Jones?” she asked steadily.

“The unknown kind,” he responded.  “They left us a package.”  Baird exchanged a fleeting glance with Flynn, and she could see that he was thinking the same thing she was:  Kidnapping.

“Okay, Jones, sit tight.  We’re at the back door now, we’ll be there in a minute.”

 

* * *

 

As soon as they were back in the Annex, Eve spotted the small package sitting on the long table in the middle of the workroom.  She and the others hurried over to examine it.

“What’s the story, Jones?” she asked as she inspected the plain cardboard box sealed with packing tape.  There was nothing written on the outside, no markings of any kind.

“I was in here looking over security footage,” Ezekiel began.  “And suddenly the perimeter alarms start going off.  By the time I get to the mirror and get it activated, all I can see is a guy wearing black running away from the door toward a black SUV.  I ran out to the front of the building to try and see what direction they were heading, but I was too late.  When I turned to go back into the Annex, I saw that on the ground next to the door.”  He nodded at the innocuous-looking box.

“I didn’t try to look inside it.  I just brought it in and then called you lot.” 

“Package bomb?” offered Jake, but Eve shook her head.

“No, I don’t think so,” she said.  “It’s too small for that, plus I think whoever left it _wants_ us to look inside, because they have something to communicate.”

“Like what?” asked Jones.

“Like, they have Cassandra, and to prove it they’ve left this package for us that contains proof,” said Flynn, face stony.  “Physical proof—a lock of her hair, a piece of clothing.  Pictures or a recording.  Something that proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that they have her, maybe even a note with their demands, too.”   He looked around the anxious faces around him.  Jenkins looked as though he was going to be sick, but he said nothing.

Carsen dug into his pocket and brought out a small penknife.  He opened the blade and carefully slit the tape on the package.  Jones and Stone looked at each other in disbelief as he worked.

“ _Kidnapping_?” blurted Ezekiel.  “Are you serious?  Who would want to kidnap Cassandra?  I mean, _why_?”

“She’s a Librarian,” Flynn answered simply.  “Whoever took her clearly knows her value as such, and they’re hoping to use her as leverage to get whatever it is that we have and that they want.  An artifact, I’m guessing.  Though how they knew she was a Librarian in the first place is a mystery in and of itself.”  He gingerly pulled back the flaps of the box to reveal shredded newspaper that had been used as packing material. 

“That’s no mystery, mate,” said Jones sourly.  “Thanks to Stone’s team-building-camp-girlfriend-who-turns-out-to-actually-be-a-nosy-reporter, the _entire_ world knows we’re Librarians now.” 

“She recanted that story!” Jake burst out angrily.  Ezekiel snorted in derision.

“Yeah, and that made _everybody_ just magically forget all about the Library’s existence, I’m sure!” he shot back.  Jake opened his mouth to say something, but Baird interrupted him.

“Enough!” she ordered.  “We can discuss that later.  Right now, let’s focus on finding Cassandra, okay?”

Flynn carefully dug through the paper until he found a small, white, nondescript cardboard gift box.  He set it on the table and then dug around some more in the larger box.

“There’s nothing else,” he said, setting the cardboard box aside and focusing his attention completely on the white box.  He looked around at the others, then grasped the box’s lid with one hand and the base with the other. 

“Here goes nothing...”  He quickly lifted the lid from the box.  There was a stunned silence for several seconds as each person took in the sight of the box’s contents:  A bloody human finger, its fingernail painted pale lavender with a tiny yellow daisy, wearing a gold ring fashioned to look like entwined tree branches.

“ _Jesus_ , Flynn...” Eve breathed in shock as she recognized Cassandra’s Sealing ring.  A split-second later, a cry of anguish tore through the room as the Caretaker standing next to her recognized the ring as well.

“ _CASSANDRA_!”  Jenkins turned around, away from the sickening sight, his hands covering his face.  He began breathing heavily and rapidly, great heaving gasps as shock, fear for Cassandra and anger warred within him for control.  Eve turned to try and calm him, when suddenly her cell phone rang, indicating that she had an incoming text message.  She frantically dug her phone out of her pocket, and her heart leaped in her chest.

“It’s Cassandra!” she said excitedly, then her face took on a confused look.  “It’s a video.”  The others clustered around the tall woman as she played the video for them, a pale Jenkins turning and crowding in right next to her so he could see the screen clearly.

The image of a disheveled, frightened-looking Cassandra appeared.  She was tied securely to a wooden armchair.  Her left eye and cheek were swollen and beginning to purple, and her lower lip was stained with blood.  Jenkins sucked in a sharp breath at the sight of his wife in such a state, but otherwise he remained silent.

They all watched as a figure, dressed in black, face covered by a ski mask, stepped into view.  The figure said nothing, but held up his black-gloved hands, revealing to the camera a chisel and a heavy mallet.  He moved quickly to Cassandra’s side and placed the sharp edge of the chisel against the top of her left-hand ring finger.

“No!  _PLEASE_!” Cassandra begged the figure.  “Please, don’t do this!  _Please_!”

“We’ve seen enough,” said Eve, her voice husky.  She started to stop the video, but Jenkins’s hand shot out to grip her wrist so tightly she was afraid he was going to break something.

“NO!” he barked, his eyes never leaving the screen.  Eve let the video play.

“Please, WHY are you doing this?” the terrified Librarian pleaded.  She was sobbing now.

“ _Please_ , just tell me what you want!  No!  Don’t!  _Please!  PLEASE!  No! DON’T!_   _NO_!”

The dark figure moved to position his body in front of Cassandra, mercifully blocking their view of what was to come.  The mallet rose high into the air over the figure’s head and hung there for a few seconds, Cassandra continuing to beg and cry hysterically.  Without warning, the mallet fell.  Cassandra threw her head back and screamed at the top of her lungs, her eyes shut tight as she wildly struggled against the ropes tying her down.  They heard the mallet strike the top of the chisel.  As Cassandra continued to scream and cry uncontrollably in the background, the dark figure turned back to face the camera and held up the severed finger.  The video abruptly ended.

Jenkins’s hand went limp around Eve’s wrist.  She pulled it free and rubbed it unconsciously as she looked up into the Caretaker’s face.  All of the color had drained from his skin, and his eyes were black and hard as marble.  Before she could say anything, his face twisted with inconsolable grief and fury as he turned away from them, shrieking Cassandra’s name like a wounded animal. 

He stumbled across the room and fell limply against the back door.  His knees buckled beneath him and sent him crashing to the floor.  With no other target for his rage and anguish, Jenkins drew back his right fist and drove it with all of his strength into the glass panel of the door.  Shards of the heavy, frosted glass exploded from the panel, he felt bones in his hand crack as it went through the thick pane, but the agony he felt for Cassandra swallowed any pain he might have otherwise felt.

“ _Jenkins_!”  Eve and the others rushed over to the stricken immortal.  She and Stone gently pulled his fist out of the door, both of them gasping at the sight of his broken, bloody hand, the skin covering his knuckles torn and bleeding badly.  There were cuts along the back of his hand as well, but miraculously only one looked serious enough to need stitches.

“I SWEAR!” Jenkins roared raggedly as he sobbed.  “I will find the one who did this!  I swear it, by the Holy Blood of Christ!  I will find him and I will kill him with my own hands!”  Pulling his arm free of Baird and Jake, Jenkins mindlessly cocked his damaged fist back to strike the door again in his rage.  It took Eve, Flynn and Jacob together to hold his arm back.  They eventually managed to turn the large man around and sat him against the remaining door.

“Jones, go get the first aid kit!  Hurry!” Flynn ordered, and the young man ran off to fetch it.  When he returned, Eve began to treat the immortal’s bleeding hand, Flynn holding it steady while she worked.  She spoke soothingly to Jenkins as she checked the cuts for glass and wrapped a temporary bandage around his hand.  His initial fury spent, he soon calmed down, his head falling back against the door and his eyes shut, saying nothing as he softly wept.  The awful images in the video played again and again in his head. 

“We need to get you to the infirmary, Jenkins,” Eve said.  “We need to x-ray your hand, you may need a brace or a cast or something, and check out the cuts.”  No sooner had she finished speaking when the perimeter alarm blared into life, making them all jump.

“Jones, come on!” Jacob hit the thief on his arm, and together the two young men bolted for the front door of the Annex.  Flynn scrambled to his feet and activated the mirror.  Eve helped Jenkins get to his feet and they joined the Librarian in front of the mirror. 

“Dammit!” muttered Carsen.  They saw nothing in the mirror’s glass except Jake and Ezekiel bursting out onto the walkway leading up to the Annex, the two men looking around wildly and searching the area around the Annex.  When the pair came back to the workroom, Ezekiel was holding a plain white, business-sized envelope in his hand.

“This is all we found.  It was taped to the door,” he said tensely.  Eve took the envelope and tore it open.  It contained a single sheet of paper, containing three lines of text—two sentences and a set of GPS coordinates.

 _“Send us the Immortal by midnight, or we will send the Librarian back to you piece by piece”_ , the typewritten words ordered bluntly.  “ _He comes alone or she dies_.”  Below the coordinates, the message was signed with a symbol, the black outline of a goat or a ram skull on top of a pole or post of some kind.

Eve looked up from the note and into the stony faces around her.

“What the hell is going on here, Flynn?” she asked in bewilderment.


	3. Chapter 3

Everyone was gathered in the infirmary, clustered around the exam table where Eve worked on stitching up and splinting Jenkins’s hand.  Flynn had brought the Asclepius Glass out from the Library’s collection of medical artifacts and, holding it up to his own eye like a monocle, had examined the damaged limb.  With it, Flynn was able to clearly see through each layer of the entire structure of Jenkins’s hand as if the skin wasn’t even there, all the way down to the bones.  The Librarian was relieved to see that only the fourth and fifth long metatarsal bones in the Caretaker’s hand were slightly cracked, but not completely broken.  Miraculously, there was only one serious cut on the side of the Caretaker’s hand, and Eve was able to expertly close the wound with only two stitches.

“You’re a lucky guy, Jenkins!” Flynn announced as he put the Glass back into its case.  “Or maybe just a lot tougher than I gave you credit for being—either way, a couple of days in a splint and you’ll be as good as new.”  Jenkins barely nodded, mute, his eyes glaring vacantly at nothing, his face unreadable.

Flynn and Eve exchanged worried glances, but neither said anything.  Sighing quietly as she finished wrapping Jenkins’s hand, the Guardian turned her attention back to the original crisis.

“Jones, how did you do with the security footage?  Did you find anything that can give us an idea of Cassandra’s movements this morning?” she asked the Australian.  Ezekiel immediately opened up his laptop and set it up so that everyone could see the screen.

“Yep,” he answered, hitting some keys.  “I hacked into the Portland Police Department’s closed-circuit television system and looked at the security cameras they have throughout the downtown area.  And I just want to say, for the record, that Homeland Security is a _huge_ joke, ‘cause it took all of four seconds for me to get access!”  He snorted in disgust, then pointed to a section of the surprisingly clear black and white image on the monitor.

“Right here you’ll see Cassandra entering the shoe store.”  An image of a young woman, clearly identifiable as Cassandra, could be seen walking along the sidewalk and entering a shop.  Everyone leaned forward and peered intently at the images.  “According to the system’s timestamp, that was just after nine o’clock, right after the shop opened.”  Jones hit a couple of keys, and the footage sped up.  As soon as Cassandra was seen exiting the shoe store, he slowed the footage down to normal speed again.

“And there she is leaving, about twenty minutes later.  See the shopping bag?  And now she’s heading to the next stop.”  Jones touched more keys on the laptop, and new footage from a completely different angle appeared on the screen.  Cassandra could be seen from behind, entering a second shopfront.

“That’s the candy store,” Jones informed them.  “About ten minutes after leaving the shoe store.” 

“Jones, replay that footage, before she enters the store,” Baird said, and he complied.  Eve leaned in even more to study Cassandra’s body language.

“So far, so good,” she said. “She looks relaxed, she doesn’t seem anxious, she’s not looking nervously over her shoulder, doesn’t act like someone is following her or that she’s had any run-ins with anyone.  Same old perky, cheerful Cass.” 

Jones sped up the footage to the place where Cassandra left the shop, then resumed normal speed again.  The redhead emerged from the confectioner’s and walked to the corner.  She stood still as she waited for the traffic lights to change.  Baird quickly scanned the area displayed on the monitor, looking for anything out of place.  Suddenly Jacob reached out his hand and pointed to the monitor. 

“There,” he breathed, his finger landing on a figure, barely within the camera’s frame.  He was in dark clothing and sunglasses, standing not far behind Cassandra and appearing to talk on his cell phone.  He looked as though he was staring at the Librarian.  “That guy right there!  What’s he up to?” 

All eyes locked onto the mysterious figure as the traffic signals changed and Cassandra began to cross the street.  The man waited until she had taken several steps before stepping off of the curb and trailing behind her.

“He’s tailin’ her!” Jake barked excitedly.  Flynn put a hand on the younger man’s shoulder.

“Easy, Stone,” he said.  “Could just be a coincidence...”  Flynn’s voiced trailed off and Ezekiel switched camera angles again.  Now Cassandra was approaching the viewers.  She suddenly stopped and looked into a storefront on her right for a few seconds.  She checked her watch, and, with a smile, turned and went inside.  The man following her stopped outside of the shop.  He did not go inside, but rather propped himself leisurely against the wall outside the door, still talking on his phone. 

“He _is_ followin’ her!  I _knew_ it!” growled Jacob.  Flynn patted his shoulder in agreement.

“Is that the ladies’ shop?” he asked Ezekiel.  Jones shook his head.

“Nah, it’s a fancy tea and coffee shop.  She probably just decided to pop in for a quick cuppa.”  He sped the footage again to the time Cassandra came out of the shop twenty-five minutes later.  She began heading down the empty sidewalk again, toward the viewers, and again, the stranger fell in behind her, this time slipping his phone into his pocket.

Suddenly, the man rushed forward and grabbed the unsuspecting Librarian from behind, one hand covering her mouth while his other arm wrapped around her waist and picked her up.  At the same moment, a black SUV pulled smoothly up to the curb and the passenger-side door swung open.  The man forced Cassandra around and began to push her toward the vehicle. 

Cassandra fought back at that point, dropping her shopping bag and elbowing her attacker in his ribs as hard as she could.  Caught off-guard, he dropped Cassandra and wrapped his arms around his ribcage protectively for a few seconds, but recovered just as Cassandra started to run away from him.  He caught her by the arm and pulled her roughly around to face him.  Without warning he cocked his right arm back and sucker-punched the woman in the side of her head.  She immediately slumped to the ground, stunned.  He then, for no apparent reason, viscously slapped the nearly unconscious woman with the back of his hand, hard enough to make her head snap to one side and splitting her lower lip.  Eve heard a sharp intake of breath next to her and she turned her head to see Jenkins glaring angrily at the monitor, his eyes hard and glassy with hate while incongruous tears threatened to spill over onto his pale cheeks.

She turned back to the footage just in time to see Cassandra’s attacker easily pick her up and shove her into the SUV.  He quickly grabbed her shopping bag from the sidewalk and jumped into the cab after her, slamming the door shut just as the truck sped away from the curb and out of frame.  The entire episode was over in less than two minutes.

Eve and the others straightened up, silent for a few seconds as each digested what they had just witnessed.  She looked around at the somber faces.

“Any more footage, Jones?” she asked.  He shook his head.

“Nah; I tried to follow them, but I lost them in traffic.  Sorry.”  Ezekiel dropped his eyes for a moment, ashamed.  Eve lightly touched his arm, then looked around again at the others.

“Assessments?” she asked. 

“I bet it’s DOSA!” snapped Jake.

“It’s not DOSA,” Flynn said. “It’s a set-up.”  The others looked at him.

“What do you mean, a ‘set-up’?” Baird asked him harshly.  “Are you saying Cassandra is in on this?”

“No, no, no,” the Librarian said quickly, waving his hands.  “No.  I mean, it’s a set-up by the kidnappers, to goad us into action.”  The others stared at him uncomprehendingly.

“Look, it’s simple, really,” he said.  “Let’s assume that they _have_ given us the exact coordinates of her location.  The unnecessary violence as they snatched her off the street, the video they sent—they’re goading us.  They _knew_ that we would check out the security cameras.  They _want_ us to become _so_ outraged, _so_ emotional that we go off half-cocked, go rushing to Cassandra’s rescue without thinking.”

“A trap, in other words,” said Ezekiel thoughtfully.  “And they’re using Cassandra as the bait.”

“Exactly!” confirmed Flynn, slapping his hands together.  “And I don’t think for a second that DOSA has anything to do with this.  Can’t say _how_ I know that, just a vibe I’m getting from this whole thing.  This is something far more sinister than your typical bureaucratic government agency.”

“Okay, let’s go with that for a minute.  Why?  What’s their motivation?  Were they after Cass specifically, or would _any_ Librarian have been good enough?  And if she _was_ the intended target, why her?  And who are ‘they’?” asked Baird. “Do you have any ideas, Flynn?”  Carsen shook his head and pulled the ransom note out of his jacket pocket.

“No, not yet; I’ve examined the ransom note, but it doesn’t really tell me anything.  Cheap, regular notebook paper that can bought everywhere.  Plain, black, ball-point pen ink.  The coordinates are for a location in the mountains northeast of here, in the Santiam State Forest.”  He shook his head again as he looked at the note.

“I’m _sure_ I’ve seen this symbol before, though, the mark they signed it with.  But I just _can’t_ _quite_ place it yet.  I’m assuming it’s some sort of group or secret society or something like that.  But _who_ , exactly...?  He shrugged his shoulders.

“And why do they want Jenkins?” asked Jacob worriedly.  Eve’s brows knit together as she pondered the question.

“No idea,” she said.  “Surely they know that we’ll never let him outside of the Library now, _knowing_ that they want him...” she began.  She and the Librarians jumped as Jenkins shouted in protest. 

“NO!  I _am_ going!”  He’d been so quiet that they had forgotten his presence.  The Caretaker lumbered forward, fire in his dark eyes.  Eve moved to stand in front of him, stopping him.

“Jenkins, no!” she said sharply.  “We can’t give them what they want!  I don’t know why exactly they want you, but I’m pretty damn sure it’s for nothing good!  You _have_ to stay here, Jenkins, under the protection of the Library.  _We’ll_ go get Cassandra, _we’ll_ bring her back.  I promise!”  The immortal began shaking his head vigorously before she was finished speaking.

“No, Colonel, I _have_ to go!  She’s _my_ wife!  I _cannot_ stay here cowering in safety while she’s in danger, while she’s in the hands of those... _animals_!”  Baird placed her hands firmly on the agitated man’s shoulders and forced him to look her in the eyes.

“Jenkins, I get it; I understand,” she said, her voice calm and steady.  “You’re afraid for Cass and her safety—we all are.  I get it that she’s your wife and that you’re worried for her in a different way, but we _can’t_ let you fall into their hands, too.  We don’t know who these people are or what their agenda is.  They could have an artifact or a spell or something that can hurt you, maybe even kill you!  I’m _your_ Guardian, too, Jenkins, don’t forget that, and I’m _not_ going to allow you to risk your safety or your life, not even for Cassandra.”  She moved her hands from his shoulders to either side of his face.

“Let _us_ handle this, Jenkins,” she said earnestly, looking straight into his eyes.  “You’re too angry and upset right now, and that’s when mistakes get made; you know that.  I _swear_ to you, we’ll bring Cassandra home.  She may be banged up a little, but we _will_ bring her home to you.”  She stared hard up at him, straight into his eyes.

“And if I have to hog-tie you to get you to stay put, I will!”  Jenkins held her gaze for a few seconds, then, with a deep sigh, his shoulders fell and his eyes dropped.

“Very well, Colonel,” he surrendered.  “I know you’re right.  It’s just that...”

“I know, Skippy,” she said, her hands moving to rest on his arms.  “If I was in your shoes and they had Flynn, I would feel exactly the same way.”  The Caretaker squared his broad shoulders and began to fuss with his shirt cuffs distractedly.

“Yes, well.  Since I’m _forbidden_ to go and rescue my wife from a pack of maniacs, I think I’ll go and make us some tea, then,” he said bitterly, then turned and strode quickly to the door.

“Jenkins...” Eve called after him, her voice full of sympathy for the anxious immortal’s plight.  He ignored her, however, and disappeared through the door.

“Right.  Okay, then—we need a plan,” Eve sighed heavily, turning wearily back to the others; Jenkins and his battered feelings would have to wait for now.  “Let’s move this back to the workroom and start working on...”  She stopped talking as they heard the sound of the door’s lock being turned.  From the outside.

“Jenkins!” Baird yelled and ran to the door, the others following close behind her.  She grabbed the door’s knob and tried to turn it, but it was too late.  Through the small glass window, she saw Jenkins, granite-faced, glaring defiantly back.

“ _Jenkins_!” she yelled again, this time pounding on the door with her fist.  “Jenkins!  Unlock this door _now_!”

“I’m sorry, Colonel Baird,” the immortal said loudly so they could hear him clearly through the thick wood of the door.  “But I simply cannot hide in the Library while others take the risks that are meant only for me.”  He removed the heavy brass key from the lock and slipped it into his coat pocket, then looked at the irritated, worried faces clustered around the window in the door.  

“What sort of husband would I be if I didn’t go and fight for my own wife?  What kind of a man would I be?  What kind of a _knight_?  How would I ever face Cassandra after that?” 

“Jenkins!” Flynn yelled, pointing a finger at the Caretaker.  “I absolutely _forbid_ you to go, as the Librarian and your boss!  I forbid you!  And, I order you to open this door, right now!”  Jenkins looked askance at the helpless Carsen for a moment, then turned and walked away toward the workroom.

“JENKINS!”  Eve shouted, pounding uselessly against the door.  She gave it one last swift kick in frustration.  “ _Dammit_!”

She whirled around to face Ezekiel.  “Can you pick this lock, Jones?”  The Aussie cast a smirking glance at the door.

“Seriously?” he said sarcastically.  “Do you even know who you’re talking to?”

“Get to it!” she ordered him.  “Stone, give him any help he needs.”  As the two younger Librarians got to work, Baird stalked back over to the exam table and brought her fist down on it.

“ _Damn_ that stubborn old son of a bitch!” she said in frustration.  “I should’ve known he wouldn’t give up that easily, not where Cassandra’s concerned.  He used the oldest trick in the book and I _completely_ fell for it!”  Flynn came up next to her and put his arm around her shoulders.

“Don’t feel so bad, honey,” he said consolingly.  “Jenkins has been around the block a few _hundred_ times more than us, you know.  He’s bound to get the better of us once in a while.”

“I can’t help, Flynn,” she said, her voice tight with worry and frustration.  “I’m _his_ Guardian as much as I am yours, and I don’t want him to get hurt any more than I want to see you get hurt.”  She seated herself on the exam table and ran her hands through her hair tiredly.

“And these wack-jobs have proven that they have _no_ problems whatsoever with hurting people.”  She looked over to the door where Ezekiel Jones was working to pick the lock.

“How’s it coming over there, Jones?”  Without looking up the Library’s resident thief gave the Guardian a thumb’s up.

“Almost got it,” he assured her.  “Just a couple more ticks aaand...”  There was soft clicking sound as he finally coaxed the lock to open.  Jones turned the knob and pushed the infirmary door open, a look of smug triumph on his face.  “Voila!”

“Good work, Ezekiel!” Baird said as she slid off of the exam table and rushed for the hallway.  “Let’s go!”

 

* * *

 

Jenkins had recognized the sigil at the bottom of the ransom note the moment he laid eyes on it, and he knew that Cassandra was in mortal danger.  When the opportunity presented itself to go find her while leaving the others behind in the Annex, he seized it.  He knew why the kidnappers wanted him.  He knew who was responsible for taking his wife, for hurting her so cruelly.  It was no idle threat he had made in the workroom after he saw what they did to Cassandra in the video.  He meant every word of that oath.  He was going to find and kill the one who was responsible for this, as he should have done in Bram when he had the chance.  Jenkins knew that he had to do this alone, he had to end this madness, once and for all, alone. 

Jenkins ran into the workroom and headed straight for the map cabinet behind his desk.  Yanking open a drawer, he pulled out a long dagger in its scabbard and slammed the drawer shut again.  He tucked the dagger into the waistband of his trousers as he hurried next to the globe housing the mechanism for the back door.  He hoped that the broken glass panel wouldn’t interfere with how the door operated as he set the workings for the coordinates given in the ransom note and activated it.  As the mechanism came to life, he breathed a sigh of relief—everything still seemed to be working normally.  He set the scrambler to erase the coordinates once he was through the door; having to manually re-enter the coordinates would slow the others down only a few seconds, but he would take very second of a head start he could get.

He placed himself in front of the glowing portal and the doors swung open.  He paused for a moment and took a deep, steadying breath.  Closing his eyes, Jenkins focused his attention on Cassandra, reaching out to her through the unique bond established between them through their Sealing, trying to discover what she was feeling at this moment, in the hopes that it would give him a clue as to how to proceed, or at the very least, reassure him that she was simply still alive.  He quickly, easily felt her fear—the hard, cold, hollowness inside of her; she was terrified.  And in pain. 

_Be strong, my love_ , he thought, concentrating on the words, hoping that she could feel his love and concern for her through her pain and fear.  _I’m coming for you!_

He opened his eyes and stared into the soft blue light of the magic portal, then ran through it to meet whatever fate awaited him.


	4. Chapter 4

Flynn, Eve, Jake and Ezekiel burst into the workroom.

“Jenkins!” shouted Flynn loudly as he looked wildly around the large room, but it was clear that the Caretaker was already gone.  “Dammit!  We were only a few seconds behind him!”

Eve ran over to the globe and checked the coordinates setting on the back door.  She furrowed her brow in puzzlement.  “These aren’t the same coordinates that were in the ransom note,” she said.  Flynn hurried over to see for himself.

“He’s used the scrambler,” he said, shaking his head.  “He’s just trying to slow us down; he’s at the coordinates in the note, you can bet your bottom dollar on that!”  The Librarian began to reset the coordinates to the location given in the note and activated the door.

“If we hurry we may still be able to catch him!”  Flynn rushed towards the doors as they swung open, but Eve caught him by the arm and swung him back around to face her.

“Wait, Flynn!”

“What?”

“We don’t go anywhere until we have a plan!” she said.  Flynn waved his hands in agitation.

“We don’t have time for that anymore!” he said.  “We need to get over there and find Jenkins, find Cassandra, and get them away from the evil, bloodthirsty cultists before it’s too late!”  Instantly, Carsen’s eyes widened and he slapped both of his hands over his mouth.  Eve’s blue eyes glittered with an icy fire.

“ _What_ evil, bloodthirsty cultists?!” she demanded angrily, Jones and Stone coming to stand next to her.  Flynn, his hands still firmly covering his mouth, only shook his head rapidly in denial. 

“What are you hiding from us, Flynn?”  Eve’s face became furious as she came to a realization.  She grabbed both of Flynn’s wrists and wrenched his hands roughly from his mouth.

“That sign on the ransom note—you’ve known all along what it meant!  It’s the sign of a cult group, isn’t it?  One that you know all about!  _Dammit_ , Flynn!  _Why_ would you keep that from us?”  The Librarian pulled his arms free and held up his hands placatingly.

“Because I _don’t_ know all about them!  Well, at least, not about _this_ particular group of cultists, anyway,” he said, beginning to babble.  “I know all about the _original_ group of cultists that existed in the _past_ ; they were awful, terrible, bloodthirsty maniacs who practiced human sacrifice...”

“ _What_?!” shouted Eve, unable to believe what she had just heard.  Flynn held his hands higher to halt any further protests.

“But this new, _modern_ group—I have no idea what _they’re_ actually like!” he finished.  Eve put her hands over her face to keep from punching her husband and took a deep, calming breath.

“Flynn,” she said, forcing calm into her voice.  “Tell us everything you know, right now, before I pull your lower lip over the top of your head.”  Not one hundred percent convinced that the Guardian was just exaggerating, Flynn proceeded to tell them everything he knew.

“This sigil, the one they used to sign this ransom note with,” he started, pulling the note from his coat pocket and holding it out for the others to see.  “It’s thousands of years old, the earliest record of it is from Ancient Sumer, approximately the Sixth Century BCE.  It’s the sign of a cult to one of the Elder Gods, known nowadays by the name Shub-Niggurath, or more simply, the Black Goat, sometimes also called ‘The Lord of the Woods’ or ‘the Lord of the Mountains’ in some parts of the world.” 

“Wait, wait, wait—you mean, Shub-Niggurath, as in H.P. Lovecraft’s Shub-Niggurath?” interjected Jacob, becoming more agitated as he continued to speak.  “As in, his Cthulhu Mythos Shub-Niggurath?  As in, the same kind of dude as that hybristic we nearly got eaten by at Wexler University?  _That_ Shub-Niggurath?”  Flynn shook his head.

“No, _not_ that Shub-Niggurath,” he said firmly.  “I mean, yes, Lovecraft _did_ have access to much of Wexler’s occult research, and part of that research _did_ cover an entity called Shub-Niggurath, also known as the Black Goat in Lovecraft’s stories, but Lovecraft had no real understanding of what he was reading.”  Flynn shrugged his shoulders as he considered.

“Neither did Wexler, for that matter, otherwise he wouldn’t have...you know...”  Flynn grimaced as he made a motion over head with both hands to indicate an explosion.  Eve sighed with impatience.

“Is there a point here, Flynn?” she asked.  The Librarian held up his hands.

“The point is:  Lovecraft took a few lines of scribbled descriptions of creatures so creepy and horrible that they were virtually indescribable, gave them all crazy, exotic-sounding names and turned them into one of the most beloved horror mythologies in all of American literature.”

“Like when he took a vague description of a hybristic and gave it the made-up name of ‘Cthulhu’, and then made up a bunch of stories about it,” concluded Jacob thoughtfully.  Flynn nodded in agreement.

“Likewise, the Shub-Niggurath of H.P. Lovecraft is only a fiction.  But the being that _inspired_ it?  Oh, yeah, you better believe _that’s_ real!” finished Flynn.  Eve cocked her head quizzically.

“’Being’?” she asked.  Flynn beamed with approval.

“Ah, you picked up on that, my smart, beautiful Guardian!  Allow me to explain,” he replied grandly.

“The Elder Gods that Lovecraft created _are_ based on actual beings—thinking, intelligent, reasoning beings so far beyond the pale of human experience as to be incomprehensible to us.  This particular entity—“ Flynn pulled the note out of his pocket and showed them the symbol, “—was known by the Sumerians as Belhursanu Xul, ‘Evil Lord of the Mountains’ or “Black Lord of the Mountains’, roughly translated.  And even that is more like a job description than an actual name; it’s true name is simply unknowable.  Somewhere along the line, it came to be symbolized by a local species of mountain sheep or goat of some kind.  As I said earlier, its kind first show up in the historical record in the ancient Near and Middle East, and were probably worshipped as gods by the early civilizations.  With the passage of time, newer gods supplant these first beings and they’re eventually forgotten, except by handfuls of hardcore devotees.  Or, conversely, a cult dies out, only to be rediscovered centuries or millennia later and ‘resurrected’, except that these new cults have no idea what it is that they’re really worshipping, because the historical record is thin on practical information, such as, ‘Do not disturb, as this being eats human souls for sustenance’.”  He looked around at the three somber faces, and his voice took on a serious tone.

“That’s what I think has happened here.  The cult of the so-called Black Goat finally died out in the Middle Ages, wiped out finally by the Catholic Church.  No one knows exactly what the worship involved, the Church destroyed all written records of it whenever it came across them.  But it’s always been part of legends that human sacrifice was involved.  Someone somewhere has rediscovered this cult and decided to resurrect it, and that _could_ explain why they want Jenkins; the life of an immortal offered in sacrifice would be seen as a pretty awesome offering for an immortal god.”

“But Jenkins can’t be killed,” said Ezekiel, a tinge of panic in his voice.  “I mean, he’s immortal, Koeschi’s Needle is the only weapon that can actually kill him, right?  And it’s already here in the Library.”

“Unless they never planned to _kill_ him...” mused Jacob as he uneasily rubbed the stubble on his face with one hand.  The others looked at him expectantly.  The historian glanced at each of them, his own eyes filling with apprehension.

“Maybe they don’t plan on killin’ him.  Where human sacrifice is involved, it’s usually not the whole body that’s the intended offering.  A lot of the time it’s just the blood—the very essence and source of life itself.  Maybe all they want is Jenkins’s blood, maybe this Elder goat god or entity or whatever is happy with just blood sacrifices?” he posited.  “They snatch Cassandra to lure Jenkins, they then snatch him and hold him hostage someplace as a continual...source.  For immortal blood.  For their sacrifices.”  Horror filled their eyes as the others began to realize what Stone was suggesting.

“ _Christ_ , Stone,” breathed Ezekiel.  “That’s messed up!”

“You’re saying that they want to hold Jenkins hostage and essentially... _milk_ him of his blood whenever they want to perform a sacrifice?” asked Baird in disbelief, her blood running cold.  “Like a _cow_?”

“And they would hold Cassie as a means of keepin’ him under control,” Stone continued.  Eve shook her head vigorously and waved her hands in front of her.

“Nope!” she said.  “Not gonna go there, Stone.  Look...” She paused for a moment to refocus her thoughts, then looked around at the Librarians.

“Look, we can sit around all day long and come up with all kinds of theories and hypotheses and scenarios.  But we can’t create a solid, viable rescue plan based on ‘maybes’ or ‘what ifs’ or ‘supposes’.  What we need is _information_ , gentlemen; what we need are _facts_.”  She looked at the two younger men.

“Jones, Stone:  Hit the books.  Find out what the Library has on the Elder Gods in general, this goat cult in particular.  _Anything_ you can find out.”  She turned her attention to Flynn and grabbed his hand.

“Flynn and I’ll look up the location of the coordinates in the note and see what that can tell us.”  The Guardian took a deep breath.

“Meet back here in two hours.  Let’s move, Librarians!”

 

* * *

 

Jenkins stepped through the door and found himself in a dark, heavily-forested mountainside.  His eyes adjusted to the dim moonlight as the Annex door closed and disappeared behind him.  The air was cold, the sky clear.  Innumerable stars sparkled like crystal shards in the night sky despite the full, reddish-orange moon.  It was full blood moon tonight, he remembered, a superstitious chill oozing down his spine.  _Get hold of yourself, Jenkins!_ He chided himself harshly.

He looked warily around himself for a moment, listening for any manmade sounds.  Hearing nothing, he relaxed a bit, automatically moving his right hand to draw the dagger, but the splint Baird had placed on him prevented him from getting a good grip on the weapon’s hilt.  He roughly unbound his hand, hissing at the quick stab of pain it caused, and tossed the splint and bandaging aside.  He flexed his hand painfully a couple of times, testing it.  It wasn’t optimal, but it would have to do, he decided, and drew the dagger. 

He caught the scent of wood smoke suddenly and he was alert once again.  There was an almost imperceptible breeze, and once he determined the direction it was coming from, he headed off in search of the source of the scent.  He’d only a gone a few steps when he stopped.

Colonel Baird and the other Librarians would be following him soon; perhaps it would be wise to leave a trail for them.  Jenkins went back and picked up the long white gauze bandage, and used the dagger to cut it into smaller lengths.  He then laid two of the pieces on the ground to form an arrow that clearly pointed in the moonlight the direction he was going to travel.  The rest of the pieces he slipped into his coat pocket.

As he picked his way carefully along the dark ground, Jenkins noticed that he was actually traveling along a faint pathway that wound its way around rocks and trees, probably a game-trail of some kind, he decided.  After a few hundred yards he stopped and placed another arrow.  He noticed that the wood smoke smell was stronger here; he was getting close to its source.  Hopefully he would find Cassandra there, as well..  He hurried on.

He marked his trail two more times before he finally spotted a small clearing ahead of him, using up the last of the bandaging.  Keeping himself hidden among the trees, he quietly slipped as close to the clearing as he dared.  There was small wooden hunter’s shack off to the left of his position.  In the center of the clearing was a large, hastily-constructed wooden platform, a wood fire burning in a pit before it.  On the platform was a pedestal supporting a tall, dark object—a narrow, oblong-shaped black stone about five feet high, topped by the snow-white skull of a goat that glowed eerily in the moonlight.  Long horns corkscrewed out from the sides of the head, and the eye sockets were empty, the black hollows gaping blindly into space. 

Jenkins recognized the idol, nearly crying out in dismay.  He clamped his left hand hard over his mouth and shut his eyes tightly against the monstrosity, his heart turning to ice within his chest.  _How could this be!?_   He’d dragged down the hateful image centuries ago, had smashed it to dust!  He had sworn all of the men involved to secrecy on pain of death, and he knew for a fact that all had kept their word.  This couldn’t possibly be the same idol, yet here it was.

He had hoped against hope that he’d been wrong when he saw the sigil on the ransom note, but here was the proof right in front of him.  Memories rose up in the old knight, of a man whom he had once called his friend and mentor, but who had taken a path of darkness in the end, of the despicable, inhuman rites offered to this foul creature so long ago, memories a small, lifeless child stretched out on an altar, all of her blood drained from her body.  Is that why they had taken Cassandra, to offer _her_ a sacrifice?  If that was the case, why had they demanded _his_ presence?  The answer came to him instantly.

Revenge.

There was only one man who could know that Jenkins was responsible for the cult’s destruction eight hundred years ago, and now he sought his revenge:  _Bedivere_. 

Thanks to Mr. Stone’s breach of security with the reporter, Bedivere had learned Jenkins was still alive and allied with the Library, had learned that Jenkins was married now, and Bedivere sought to use that against Jenkins.  But what sort of revenge was he planning?

Doubtless Bedivere would force Jenkins to watch the sacrifice, and his body went numb with horror at the thought.  He had studied the cult in depth since that night in Bram, haunted by what he discovered there, haunted by the image of that small child drained of blood.  Most of the noxious texts and writings of the cult that he had been ordered to destroy, he had instead saved and studied obsessively.  He knew what the ritual would look like, knew exactly what Cassandra would suffer at their hands, and it would, indeed, be a fitting vengeance on the immortal to make him spend the rest of his life with that nightmare burned into his memory.

Jenkins opened his eyes and scanned the clearing.  There was no one about, but there was a dim, flickering light inside the shack, probably from a candle or a lantern.  Perhaps Cassandra was being held inside, under guard.  He was apprehensive, however, his instincts telling him that even though that made perfect sense, it was also far too easy.  The wary knight sensed a trap, but he simply couldn’t leave the shack unsearched.  He scanned the clearing once more, then began to move.

 

* * *

 

Cassandra had no idea what time it was, or whether it was even still daytime.  Judging by the air temperature, though, and the sounds she was hearing from outside, she guessed it was nighttime.  She’d been here—wherever ‘here’ was—for what seemed like years, hands tied painfully behind her back with rough hemp rope that bit into her skin.  Her ankles were bound together, a blindfold was over her eyes and a dirty rag stuffed and bound into her mouth as a gag.  She was cold, hungry and her body hurt all over, especially her head and her hands.  Occasionally she’d hear movement and she would tense up in fear.  Whoever had taken her was ruthlessly cruel and sadistic.  They had proven that when they used her phone to shoot the video of one of her kidnappers cutting her finger off to send to the others.  Her heart ached for Jenkins again as she remembered the scene.  He must have be absolutely insane with worry about her after he saw it, after seeing her Sealing ring and knowing that she was being held by psychos like these.  She would never forget the leader’s cold, hiss-like voice, like a snake’s, as he taunted her, the cold, dry touch of his hand on her tear-stained cheek, on her breasts, the slimy feel of his tongue as he actually licked her face…

Cassandra shuddered in revulsion and forced the memory from her mind.  She had to get out of here!  Even though she had no solid idea of where she was right now or of how to get back to the Annex, there just _had_ to be a way for her to get out of here and back home, back to Jenkins and the others.

The frightened woman suddenly heard a sound coming from the direction of the door.  Her muscles tensed automatically with dread as her ears strained to pick up any more sounds.  In the dead silence of the cabin, she could just catch the faintest of footfalls crossing the old wooden floor, coming toward her.  She tried to back against the wall behind her and turned her head, whimpering in fear.  She heard the sound of something being laid on the floor next her.  Two large hands touched her face, and she screamed against the gag while thrashing her head to and fro as she tried to get away from them.

“Shhh!  Shhh!  Cassandra!  It’s me!” Jenkins said in a low voice that shook with relief as he pulled the rag blindfold from her eyes.  The young Librarian blinked rapidly against the sudden light a few times, then, as she recognized the face of her husband, they widened briefly in disbelief before finally closing again, tears falling freely.  The moment he pulled the gag out of her mouth his lips were on hers, kissing her desperately as he gently held her bruised face in his hands.  Cassandra was so relieved to see him that she burst into sobs.  Jenkins leaned back from her, his dark eyes shining with his own tears.

“Cassandra! I—“

“Jenkins!  _No_!” she screamed hoarsely, staring wide-eyed at something behind him.  Before Jenkins could react, something grabbed him by the neck and jerked him backward, cutting the air off in his throat.  He reached up and felt a rope around his neck, the hemp digging into his skin as whoever was behind him tightened it, trying to strangle him.  Jenkins clawed at the rope as his assailant dragged him slowly away from Cassandra.  He heard her screaming his name, begging the attacker to stop.  Suddenly there were four more large men, all of them dressed in black and masked, pinning the knight’s flailing arms and legs to the floor. 

Jenkins fought as hard as he could, but there were too many of them.  They forced him onto his stomach and roughly pulled his hands behind his back, a sharp pain from his already injured right hand shooting up the length of his arm.  He felt cold metal against his skin as they locked handcuffs around his wrists, heard the rattle of chains as they forced leg-irons onto his ankles.  As soon as he was secured, the rope around his neck was eased, but not removed.  He was rolled over onto his back, then forced into a sitting position, the immortal coughing and gasping for air through his bruised windpipe.  Jenkins continued to struggle against his bonds, testing them, and one of the men cuffed him hard on the side of his head, almost knocking the immortal back onto the floor.

“Enough!” a harsh voice croaked from the doorway behind them.  The men stood and moved to stand beside Jenkins.  The rope remained in place around his neck.  From the doorway of the room a dark shadow emerged and approached Jenkins.  It was another figure, this one swathed in a long black cloak.  But this man’s head was uncovered, and as he came to stand before Jenkins, the immortal’s eyes stared in impotent fury as he recognized the newcomer.  The man laughed, the sound harsh and gurgling.

“I see that you still remember me,” he wheezed, satisfaction in his broken voice.  “Excellent! I was fearful that you had forgotten me after all of this time.”  The man raised a black-gloved hand to his throat and rubbed it slowly.

“I’ve not forgotten what you did to me, Galahad,” he rasped, his green eyes hard and glittering as emeralds, full of hatred.  The man turned and went to Cassandra.  He knelt beside her and turned to glare triumphantly at Jenkins, but spoke to the woman.

“Has your Caretaker ever told you about the time he led a ‘crusade’ against a group of so-called heretics, my dear Librarian?” he casually asked her.  “Or do you prefer that I address you as ‘Mrs. Jenkins’?”  He reached out his hand to touch her, but Cassandra scooted herself away from him, turning her head away in disgust.  She caught sight of Jenkins’s dagger on the floor next to her thigh— _how had the kidnappers not seen it_?  Frightened though she was, the Librarian seized the opportunity and carefully hid the weapon underneath her left thigh as she tried to move away from her captor.

“What a delectably sinful bit of stuff you’ve found for yourself, Galahad,” Bedivere rasped lewdly.  “But a low-born bastard such as yourself wedding a _Librarian_ , that’s quite a step up in the world for you!  Though I must confess to being surprised that you even _know_ how to bed a woman.”  He suddenly broke out into a gravelly chuckle.

“Or perhaps you have yet to consummate the marriage?  Are there no books in that Library of yours to tell you how to ‘sheath your sword’?”

“Jenkins, who is he?” Cassandra whispered hoarsely.  The man brushed his fingers against her swollen cheek and leaned forward to lick her face again.  He laughed as she cried out and pulled away from him, leaning over onto her side to get away from him.  Jenkins started to try and get up, but the rope around his neck jerked him cruelly back.  Bedivere grabbed Cassandra by her hair and yanked her back to him again, the Librarian gasping at the pain.  She adjusted her lower body so that she wasn’t sitting so awkwardly, then kept still, her blue eyes locked onto her husband.

“Have I not introduced myself?” the man ground out.  “How unforgivable of me!  I am Sir Bedivere of Camelot—or rather, I _was_.  Until I learned the truth of this world, and of power, and of how they work.”

‘You are a _traitor_!” roared Jenkins.  “You betrayed Arthur, you betrayed your brother knights of the Round Table and everything we stood for!  You betrayed…”  He almost slipped, almost revealed how deeply he himself had been hurt by Bedivere’s treachery. 

“You betrayed Arthur to Mordred at Camlann, stood by and did nothing as he was slain!” he continued, more calmly.  “Then you stole Excalibur from your dead sovereign’s hand for yourself, like a common thief!”  One of the men standing behind him struck Jenkins again in the head.

“You will either hold your tongue, Galahad, or I shall have it cut from your head,” Bedivere said in a bored tone, his eyes still on Cassandra.  He leaned forward and whispered loudly into her ear.

“Arthur was a fool!  For all of his fine talk of nobility and goodness, he was struck down by evil in the end.  Morgan le Fay, her son, Mordred—they convinced me of the truth by their arguments, then proved the truth of their arguments through their defeat of Arthur and his knights.  Arthur proved his foolishness when he ordered me to throw Excalibur into a lake.  Can you imagine that, my dear?” Bedivere again lightly stroked Cassandra’s cheek, and she cringed.

“Throwing such a powerful, miraculous weapon like Excalibur into a lake for the witches who live there?”  He began playing with strands of Cassandra’s tangled hair.

“I learned that ‘evil’ is actually far more powerful than ‘good’.  And so I sought out evil, I sought out its power.  And I found it.  After many years of searching, I found ‘Evil’ and its power, in the ruins of Camelot, of all places, where that old fool, Merlin, thought he had hidden it.  Is that not a delicious irony, my sweet?  That I found so-called Evil embedded in the very heart of Good?”  Jenkins struggled against his bonds in the hope of at least drawing Bedivere’s attention away from Cassandra.

“What do you want from me, Bedivere?” he snarled.  “Vengeance?”  The former knight, his eyes still on Cassandra, shrugged slightly, as if disinterested in the conversation.

“Of course it’s vengeance I want, you half-wit,” he answered the Caretaker, his hate-filled voice belying his seeming disinterest.  “I’ve been planning it for centuries—planning, dreaming, organizing, waiting. Waiting for you to surface, waiting for the perfect moment to strike, waiting for the perfect opportunity to cause you the most suffering and pain.”  Bedivere suddenly grabbed Cassandra’s lower jaw and twisted her head to face him.  He glared into her scared blue eyes.

“Has your low-born husband not told you the story of how he tried to kill me, my dear?” he ground harshly into her face.  “After all the kindness I showed him at court, too!  After extending my hand in friendship to Lancelot’s bastard whelp when no one else would!  Allowed him to follow me around like a pup, answered his incessant, foolish questions!  Has he not told you about how he repaid my generosity by storming my temple, butchering my people like hogs?”

“You were a cult of butchers!” Jenkins shouted back.  “You worshipped a creature of unspeakable horror, sought to bring it into _this_ world!  You practiced foul rites, human sacrifice!  You slaughtered innocent men, women and _children_ to feed that...that...”

“That Glorious One!” Bedivere finished, his voice taking on an adoring note and his gaze momentarily went in the direction of the idol outside the shack.  “That Black Goat, that Good God, that Lord of the Mountains!”  His eyes went back to Cassandra.

“Did your low-born husband not tell you about how he cut my throat with his own hand, like he would do a dog in the street?” he rasped bitterly.  He jerked the collar of his clothing down with his hand, revealing a thick, ugly scar that crossed the entire line of his neck.  Cassandra closed her eyes at the sight.  He grabbed her hair and violently shook Cassandra’s head, her eyes popping open in shock.

“But the Lord of the Mountains is most merciful.  He saved my life!”  An oily smile spread across Bedivere’s sickly face.

“Impossible!” barked Jenkins.  “I smashed the stone that housed the spirit!  I buried the debris where none would find it!  I saw to it that no others would lose their lives to it ever again!”  Bedivere laughed loudly, and Cassandra could see his mouthful of blackened, broken teeth.

“You smashed a decoy!” he shouted back.  “Do you honestly think that I would allow the unwashed masses direct access to the Great God?  The peasants worshipped an idol.  Only I and my most trusted followers had access to the actual stone that housed our god’s spirit!”  He turned his attention back to Cassandra.

“After your low-born husband cut my throat, I managed to escape to the manor where the true stone was located.  With my dying breath, I begged the Great God to spare my life.  And he did!  That, and so much more!”

“At what cost, Bedivere?” sneered Jenkins.  “The Elder Gods do nothing merely out of the goodness of their hearts.  What price did your ‘Great God’ ask of you for his services?”  The thin man turned to stare triumphantly at Jenkins.

“I am _so_ glad that you ask, Galahad!” he said.  “The Lord of the Mountains merely asked that I help to free him from Merlin’s enchantment, free him from his stone prison.  He asked that I offer myself as his avatar once he is free, to allow him to possess my body so that he may walk among men unhindered, to which I readily agreed, of course.”  He ran his hand over Cassandra’s body, fondled one of her breasts lovingly as she tried to escape his touch.  Jenkins tried again to rise, but the rope around his neck held him in place.

“He asked me to find him a suitable female, so that he may mate with her and beget many sons through her—princelings to rule over the nations of the world on their father’s behalf!  When I saw your picture, my sweet, I realized that a Librarian would make an excellent bride.  It’s only that much sweeter to be able to give the Great God the wife of my enemy!”  Bedivere watched closely as the blood drained from Jenkins’s face.

“Ahhhhh!” he purred with satisfaction.  “I see by the way your face so charmingly blanches that you finally understand everything!” 

“No, _please_!” Jenkins cried out.  “Your grievance is with me, Bedivere, leave her out of it!  She’s done nothing to you!” 

Bedivere ignored him, and turned to face the Librarian again, painfully tightening his grip on her jaw.

“You see, my sweet,” he explained.  “I have been able to keep the Great One’s spirit alive over the centuries through offerings of mortal blood, but only the blood of a _true_ _immortal_ can give him the strength he needs to break Merlin’s enchantments, to break free of his prison.” 

“He can’t be killed!” she gasped defiantly.  Bedivere released her and reached into his cloak, removed a heavy-bladed dagger, held it up before her eyes.

“This is Carnwennan,” he said conversationally.  “King Arthur’s dagger.  His _magic_ dagger.  I took it from him at the same time I took Excalibur.  I will kill your low-born husband with it.  After all, not even an immortal can live without a head.”  As she realized what the fallen knight was saying, Cassandra began to struggle violently against him.

“No!” she shouted.  Bedivere replaced the dagger and then moved his hand from to grip her throat, slamming her head against the rough wooden wall.

“You must be some kind of sorceress, my sweet, to have drawn Galahad down from his high-handed throne of virtue and purity.  How sad to think that you’ll soon be his widow,” he murmured huskily, his lips brushing the Librarian’s. She stared defiantly into Bedivere’s feverish green eyes, though on the inside she was utterly terrified.

“But fear not, your mourning period will be a short one!  You’ll make a delightful bride for the Great God, though I must confess that you seem somewhat delicate in build to be the wife of a man Galahad’s size.”  Bedivere let his eyes drift longingly over Cassandra’s body as he kept her pinned to the wall of the shack.

“But, I suppose if you’ve been able to bear his weight while he ruts on top of you, you’ll bear mine as well!”  Anger and disgust flared up within Cassandra.  She glared into Bedivere’s eyes for a few seconds, then spat directly into his face.

“I’ll kill myself, first!” she hissed against the hold he had on her throat.  Bedivere laughed.

“Oh, you _are_ a delightful creature!” he said.  “I shall enjoy you a great deal, I think!”  He released her, then turned to the men standing over Jenkins.

“Take him outside, prepare him for the sacrifice,” he ordered bluntly. 

“Wait!” Jenkins cried as the men grabbed his arms to lift him up.  “Bedivere, please!” he pleaded, his voice breaking.  “I know that I have no right to ask a boon of you, but for the sake of the friendship we once shared, allow me a moment with my wife—I beg it of you!”  The tall, thin man stroked his chin thoughtfully, then snorted in amusement.

“You truly _are_ a fool!  We were _never_ friends, Galahad!  You were a means to an end, a way of ingratiating myself with your father and his powerful political connections, nothing more.  So my answer is ...no,” he said bluntly, then waved a black-gloved hand toward the door.  “Take him away.” 

Cassandra’s eyes widened in horror as the men pulled Jenkins to his feet by his arms and by the rope around his neck.  _“NO!  JENKINS!”_

Even though he was bound and outnumbered, the Caretaker fought against his captors, and for a moment Cassandra thought her husband might actually get the better of them.  After a short struggle, however, the henchmen managed to throw Jenkins facedown onto the floor.  As the men lifted the large man by his leg-irons and upper arms, Jenkins raised his head, his dark eyes locking onto Cassandra as they began carrying him to the door of the shack.

“I love you, Cassandra!” he croaked desperately, the rope wound around his neck making it impossible for him to speak any louder.  He wanted to tell her to be strong, that the others were surely on their way by now.  He wanted to hold her, to reassure her that everything was going to be fine, even if it _was_ a lie, to kiss her one last time.  But there was no time for that.  There was only time for one thing.

“I will _always_ love you, never forget that!  _Always_!”  And then he was gone.

Cassandra turned to the impassive Bedivere.

“Please!” she sobbed.  “ _Please_!  I’ll do whatever you want!  I won’t fight you!  I’ll do _anything_ you say, just don’t hurt him!  _Please_!”  The knight stooped and laid a hand on her cheek, the fine leather cold against her skin.

“No,” he said lightly, his voice like ice.  He then stood and walked briskly out the door, leaving the Librarian to scream in helpless anger and grief for her doomed husband.


	5. Chapter 5

An hour and a half later, Jacob and Ezekiel had nothing to show for their efforts.  They’d pored over scores of texts and manuscripts in a frenzied search for any more information they could find on the Elder Gods, especially the one Flynn told them about, but there wasn’t much to read, not even in the Library’s vast collection.  Jake closed the book he was currently searching and shoved it across the table away from him in disgust.

“There just _has_ to be somethin’ in this Library about these so-called gods!” he snapped sharply.  “How can a place like the _Library_ not have any useful information on these things?”  He banged his fist angrily on the table, causing Jones to jump.

“Geez, mate, what’s _your_ problem?” he asked Stone, eyeing him with annoyance.  “You’ve been edgy ever since we got here.”

“I’ll tell ya what my problem is,” Jake said.  “My problem is that all of this is _my_ fault!”  He thumped his chest with a balled up fist, hard.

“If I hadn’t brought Sarina here, _none_ of this would be happenin’ right now!”  He snatched up a heavy book and threw it across the room as hard as he could.  Jones saw tears in Stone’s eyes.  _Goddammit_ , what I _thinking_?!” 

Ezekiel marked his place in his book with a finger and looked up at the distraught man.

“Hey, Stone—forget what I said earlier.  It’s _not_ your fault, I don’t know why I said that,” he said sncerely.  “It was stupid.”

“Yeah, _I_ was stupid!” spat Jacob.  “You were right, Jones, and if anything happens to Cassandra or Jenkins, it’s gonna be _my_ fault!”  He leaned on the tabletop on both hands and dropped his head.  He remembered once again the old Caretaker’s reaction when he discovered that Jake had brought an outsider into the Library.  Jenkins hadn’t said a word, only looked at Jacob with eyes full of shock mixed with disappointment, almost of pain, then turned and walked slowly away.  The knowledge that he had let Jenkins down cut Stone deeply, and the Librarian would never forgive himself as long as he lived.

“Hey, don’t write them off just yet, mate,” Jones chided.  “Cassandra can take care of herself, you know. And Jenkins—well, let’s just say I pity the poor sod who tries to get between him and Cassandra!  We’ll probably end up having to rescue the kidnappers from _them_!” he half-joked, trying to cheer up his friend.  Stone refused to be cheered, though.

Ezekiel shrugged his shoulders and sighed, then continued to peruse his book, a medieval French manuscript describing one of the many Crusades in the Middle Ages.  The text was in Latin, which Jones couldn’t read, but it was also lavishly illustrated, and it was the meticulously hand-painted pictures that he was looking at.

“I’m gonna go stretch my legs,” Jacob grumbled, standing upright and stretching his tired back.  He started to walk away from the table when Ezekiel suddenly sat up straight, his tired eyes snapping wide open.

“Hey!  Stone!  Look at this!” he called excitedly.  Stone hurried back and looked over the thief’s shoulder.

“What is it?” he asked.  Jones pointed at one illustration.  In the center of the picture was the depiction of a knight in mail armor knocking a black, goat-headed idol down from a black altar with a large, heavy hammer, shattering it.  To the left of the knight, another knight could be seen carrying a child, its throat cut, away from the building.  To the right of the central image could be seen a man wearing all black, his throat also cut, the blood gushing from the wound as he ran away from the central scene and out another door.  Below the main panel of the illustration was a smaller, long panel depicting several men in the process of pounding the statue into dust, the knight who initially struck it down from the altar directing the others.

“Notice anything special about the guy in the middle?” asked Jones, looking up at Stone.  Jake looked closely at the picture, but didn’t see anything of particular note, except for the goat-headed idol.

“Naw, man, just a typical Thirteenth Century knight—that idol looks interesting, though...”  Rolling his brown eyes in exasperation, Jones shoved the book into the Jake’s face.

“Look at the knight in the center, the one knocking over Mr. Goaty McGoat-Head,” he said.  “Look what he’s wearing!”  Puzzled, Jake stared at the figure for a minute.  He started suddenly, snatching the manuscript from Ezekiel’s hands as he realized what Jones was talking about.

“His surcoat!” Jacob all but shouted in his excitement.  “He’s wearing the arms of Sir Galahad!”  He looked down at the grinning Aussie.  “Jenkins!”

“Jenkins!” Jones repeated.  Jake quickly looked at the title of the book, then scanned the Latin text that accompanied the illustration.  As he read, his face became more and more animated, and he pumped the air with a fist in triumph.  He looked up from the book and slapped Ezekiel’s arm.

“Come on, Jones!” he urged.  “We gotta go tell Carsen and Baird about this!”

 

* * *

 

Flynn and Eve were bent over an enlarged US Geographical Survey map of the state of Oregon when Jones and Stone ran into the workroom.

“Flynn!  Eve!  I think we found somethin’!” Jake said excitedly, thumping the manuscript on top of the map so they could all see.  He quickly turned to the page with the illustration and jabbed it with his finger.

“There!  Look at that statue that knight is pullin’ off the altar—tell me that doesn’t look an awful lot like the symbol at the bottom of that ransom note!”  Flynn and Eve examined the picture closely, the Librarian retrieving the note from the desk nearby and holding it next to the illustration for comparison.  A grin spread across his face as he looked up at the others.

“I think you’re right, Stone!” he said.  Jake then pointed at the knight in the picture.

“And that right there—that’s Jenkins!  He was there!” he said confidently.  To his irritation, however, Carsen, was not convinced.

“Hold on, Jake.  I know that’s the arms of Galahad he’s wearing, but that doesn’t mean that that _actually_ Sir Galahad.  You know as well as I do that oftentimes armorial depictions are just for decoration, not for accurately identifying individuals...”

“Yeah?  Well, maybe you oughta read the _text_ , first!” Stone barked smugly.  Blinking in surprise at Jacob’s intensity, Flynn turned to the Latin writing and began to scan it.  His brow wrinkled in consternation and he slowed down, backing up and rereading each line carefully, his eyes soon widening in amazement.  Eve and Ezekiel watched him, waiting impatiently for a translation, while Jacob stood back from the table, a look a satisfaction on his face.  Finally, Flynn finished reading and stood up.

“Well?” urged Eve.  “What does it say?”  Flynn took a deep breath.

“Seems I owe Jake an apology,” he said.  “This is a memoir of one Sir Edwin Pelbrook of Leicester,” he began.  “A knight of the Thirteenth Century.  He tells of his experiences as a young knight on the Albigensian Crusade in southern France against the Cathars, a heretical group that the Catholic Church wanted destroyed, and then in the Holy Land.  This particular incident—“he pointed at the illustration, “—depicts the destruction of a cult of what he calls devil-worshippers in the small Cathar town of Bram, in France.”  He rubbed his face thoughtfully.

“The cult wasn’t connected to the Cathars in any way, according to him.  In fact, the Cathars made it clear that they avoided and condemned the cult, told the invading forces all about it.  The leader of the Crusader army sent a squad of knights, which included Sir Edwin, to investigate and, according to Edwin, they stumbled on a ritual where a child had been sacrificed, inside an abandoned church.”  He pointed to the picture of the knight carrying the small body away from the church.

“The squad leader—the knight in the middle of the picture—was a man named Sir Thomas of Leicester.  He was outraged by the death of the child and confronted the leader of the cult.  They fought, Sir Thomas wounded the cult leader, but he escaped.”  Flynn pointed to the black-robed man running away on the other side of the picture.

“Sir Edwin says that Sir Thomas was also injured in the fight, and sent men after the cultist, but he was never found, just a trail of blood that eventually petered out and led nowhere.  Sir Thomas ordered a proper burial for the child at his expense, then pulled down the cult’s idol himself and smashed it.  He ordered the pieces smashed to dust and then buried in the forest in a secret location, then swore all of his men to silence on pain of death if they ever revealed the existence of the idol to anyone.  Sir Thomas was able to convince the army’s commander to raze the church to the ground to prevent the cult from returning to Bram.”  Flynn paused for a moment and looked around the others, who were listening raptly.

“Sir Edwin says that the cultist kept addressing Thomas as ‘Galahad’, but that Sir Thomas dismissed it as the cultist being insane.  He sent Edwin for reinforcements after the cult leader killed several of Thomas’s men.  Edwin, though, eavesdropped for a short time just outside the door of the church, and heard Thomas call the cultist ‘Bedivere’, and heard both of them speaking of King Arthur as though they knew him personally.  He heard them speak of a demon that had been trapped in the stone by Merlin.” 

“So Sir Thomas _was_ actually Jenkins!” said Eve. 

Flynn nodded.  “Looks like!”

“So who’s Bedivere?” she asked, and Jake suddenly spoke up.

“He was one of Arthur’s first knights, one of his most trusted friends,” he offered excitedly.  “He was the one who threw Excalibur back into the lake when Arthur was defeated and killed by Mordred.  It’s recorded in the legends that he also liked to dabble in magic.”

“Almost got hung for being a witch, too, until Arthur intervened on his behalf,” Flynn said.  “And he actually kept Excalibur for himself, though the legends don’t record _that_.  A Librarian recovered Cal from Bedivere a few decades later.  Bedivere was sort of lured to the ‘dark side of the Force’, so to speak, to the dark side of magic, by Morgan le Fay and Mordred.  They convinced him to betray Arthur at Camlann in exchange for Excalibur.”  The Librarian thought for a moment, his face taking on a concerned expression.

“Flynn, what’s wrong?” asked Eve, and Carsen glanced at her worriedly.

“I’m getting a bad feeling about all of this,” he answered.  “Sir Edwin wrote this memoir in the latter half of the Thirteenth Century, when he was an old man, and though he never spoke of it to anyone else, he writes that he _believed_ that Sir Thomas was actually Galahad.  This event in Bram took place in 1210.  If Thomas was actually Galahad, and the cultist was actually Bedivere—“

“Bedivere was an immortal, too!” exclaimed Jake.  “And since Galahad’s men never found the cultist, or his body—“

“Bedivere escaped the Crusaders,” concluded Eve, a sinking feeling now coming to the pit of her stomach.  “He survived and recovered, went underground.  He’s still alive today, just like Jenkins.”

“And he’s the one who took Cassandra,” said Ezekiel quietly.  They turned to look at him.

“Think about it,” he said.  “This Elder goat god thingy that Bedivere’s been summoning or worshipping or whatever—Was he trying to bring it into this world, like Lovecraft used to write about in his stories?  There was always some mad wizard or something trying to bring these monsters into _our_ world.  If Bedivere was trying to do that back in the day, then Jenkins threw a _huge_ spanner into the works.  And if Bedivere’s immortal, he’s been out there all these years, stewing about what Jenkins did to him.  Now, thanks to that reporter, he finds out that Jenkins is still alive, he’s with the Library and he’s married to a Librarian.  Now he can get his revenge.  He can get Jenkins where it will hurt him the most—Cassandra.”  The others exchanged anxious glances, Jacob looking miserable.

“He signed the note with that symbol, knowing that Jenkins would recognize it,” mused Flynn.  “That’s what he meant when he locked us in the infirmary and said that he wouldn’t allow us to take risks that were meant _only for_ _him_.” 

“Bedivere is going to kill Cassandra as revenge?” breathed Eve, anger rising.

“He’ll kill Cassandra, as a sacrifice to the Elder God he’s still in love with, and make Jenkins watch,” said Flynn, putting his hand on his wife’s arm.  “He can’t kill Jenkins, so this is the next worst thing he can do to him—leave him with the memory of his wife being killed in front of his eyes and not being able to stop it.” 

“There’s another possibility,” said Jacob uneasily, looking at the faces around him.  “Bedivere’s resurrected the cult.  Instead of sacrificing Cassandra, what if she was just the bait Bedivere used to lure the _real_ sacrifice.” 

“The life of an immortal,” said Flynn somberly.  “That might be enough to free an Elder God from whatever place it’s trapped and allow it entry into _this_ world.”

“How bad would that be, Flynn?” asked Eve.  “What kind of damage are we talking about here?”

“Total annihilation,” he said bluntly.  “An Elder God loose in this world would make Apep look like amateur hour.”  Everyone fell silent for a moment as each absorbed Carsen’s words.

“All right, then!” said Eve crisply as she leaned forward and shoved the manuscript away.  “So this is a rescue mission, for Cassandra _and_ Jenkins.  And this is where we go now.”  She pointed at the location of the coordinates given in the ransom note, a wilderness area northeast of Portland, in the Santiam State Forest.

“That’s where they are, Librarians,” said Flynn.  “Let’s go get our people!”

 

* * *

 

Eve quickly formulated a rescue plan that basically consisted of little more than get in, get Jenkins and Cassandra, then get out; it was difficult to come up with anything more precise until they had done some reconnoitering.  Flynn then fired up the back door.

The team burst through the portal and into the sharply cold night air of the mountainside.  The full moon in the western sky was now a dull, pale orange color; dawn would here soon.  As their eyes adjusted to the darkness, Eve, her sidearm ready, began to look around for any sign of Jenkins or Cassandra or the kidnappers.  She caught a glimpse of something white on the ground a few yards away from them. 

“Here!” she called tersely, then began jogging over to investigate, the Librarians right behind her.  When they reached the patch of white, Jake immediately knelt down and gently touched it.

“It’s new gauze,” he said, looking up at Baird.  “It’s from the bandage on Jenkins’s injured hand.  Looks like he used it to mark a trail for us.”  He turned and jutted his chin in the direction the white arrow was pointing.  “Looks like he took this deer-path, going that way.”  Stone stood and brushed off the knees of his jeans.  Just then, they all heard a thin, almost inhuman scream in the still air, barely audible and coming from far up the trail ahead of them.  Startled, Stone turned and looked at the others.

“What the hell was that?” 

Eve took a few steps away from the others.  She motioned for silence, then listened, her head cocked.  The sound came again, and her heart began to pound as she recognized it as a woman’s voice.

“It’s Cassandra!” she yelled.  Without waiting for the others, Baird bolted up the dim path, running as fast as she could on the unfamiliar ground toward a line of trees in the distance.

 _Hang in there, Red_! she thought, hoping that they weren’t too late.

 

* * *

 

The bulk of her anger, frustration, fear and grief spent for the moment, Cassandra continued to cry uncontrollably as she resumed trying to free herself.  Between sobs she cried out in pain as she frantically worked to pull her hands from the rope binding her.  The new, stiff hemp chewed into her wrists as she pulled against it, desperately trying to stretch it just enough to slip a hand loose.  She _had_ to free herself, she _had_ to help Jenkins!  Even if it cost her own life, she didn’t care—she had to get to him and help him! 

She felt her left hand, throbbing with pain, slip through the rope, just a little.  The Librarian took a quick, deep breath to calm herself, then pulled again against the rope, hard.  The pain was excruciating, and it felt like she going to rip her hand right off of her arm, but she kept pulling, crying out with the effort. 

Suddenly, her left hand popped free of the rope.  Gasping in relief, she brought her hands forward, flexing them for a couple of seconds to bring back circulation to her fingers.  She yanked the cruel rope from her wrist and threw it away as though it was a poisonous snake, then reached underneath her left thigh to retrieve Jenkins’s dagger.  Thank God that nutjob, Bedivere, hadn’t seen it!

The razor-sharp blade sliced through the rope binding her ankles and she stood up unsteadily, her legs and back stiff and sore.  She stumbled to the door and tried the knob, but it was locked.  She traveled around the walls of the shack, looking for a crack or hole through which she could see something, _anything_.  She finally found a small crack that had opened up in one of the thick wall planks.  Pressing her eye to it, Cassandra was able to make out a tall black stone, topped by the skull of an animal with horns, on some kind of platform, a bonfire blazing in front of it.    In front of the statue was a low table, a large silver basin resting on it.  Surrounding the platform were at least a dozen figures, all of them clad in long black robes, their faces covered by black hoods.  Next to the table and basin was Bedivere, Carnwennan in his one hand.  

Cassandra followed the ex-knight’s gaze.  Terror swallowed her as she spied Jenkins being slowly dragged towards the makeshift altar.  All of his clothing above the waist had been cut off of him.  His arms and legs were still bound, but that didn’t prevent him from fighting against his captors like a lion.  He even managed to bite one of them on the forearm, drawing a sharp cry from the thug and earning Jenkins a brutal blow to the side of his head.  Besides Jenkins desperately fighting to free himself, the only other sound came from the black-robed onlookers as they struck large stones together in their hands in a slow cadence and chanting, the sound echoing eerily around the clearing.

Near panic in her desperation to get to Jenkins, Cassandra ran around the shack again looking for any weaknesses in the ramshackle walls that she could use as a means of escape.  Finally, she found one plank in the back wall that was badly warped, its nails partially pulled out of the stud.  Cassandra dropped the dagger and pushed on the board with all her strength.  Outside, over the chilling sound of the clacking stones, she could hear Bedivere’s rasping voice.

“O Great Lord of the Mountains, hear me, your most unworthy servant!  Behold!  I offer you the rarest of gifts, the life of a true immortal, the one who thwarted your plans so many centuries ago, the one who slaughtered your children!  The one who thwarted your entrance into the world of men…!”  As Bedivere on, Cassandra doubled her efforts.  She had to get out of here before he finished!

The wide plank suddenly gave way with loud, quick shriek, and the Librarian froze for an instant.  Hearing no one coming to investigate, she wriggled through the narrow opening as fast as she could, not even feeling the splinters gouging into her skin. 

Once outside, she reached back in and snatched the dagger from inside the shack and ran around to the altar space.  She made it to the clearing just in time to see Jenkins kneeling on the platform in front of Bedivere, her husband still bound by the metal shackles.  Bedivere wrapped his handless arm around Jenkins’s head and savagely jerked it up.  As Cassandra looked on, the cultist quickly leaned over and drew the blade of his knife across his victim’s throat, the keen blade slicing fast and deep into the immortal’s neck. 

The Librarian screamed

 

* * *

 

Flynn, Eve, Jacob and Ezekiel heard the low chanting and the strange clacking of the stones while still several dozen yards out, and they began to quickly and quietly follow the sounds.  No sooner did they reach the tree line than they heard Cassandra’s blood-curdling scream.  _Dammit_! thought Eve.  _No time for recon and plans now!_

“Move!  Find Jenkins and Cassandra!” she snapped, and they charged in. 

Eve moved protectively to the front of the team, her pistol up and ready as she quickly scanned the area.  There were about a dozen hooded figures, all with large stones in their hands, striking them together rhythmically.  Farther away was a slightly raised platform containing a tall, oblongish black stone topped a goat’s skull.  In front of the stone— _Jenkins_! 

Eve caught her breath as she recognized the Caretaker, on his knees and bound, blood pouring out of his neck.  There was a tall, gaunt man standing behind Jenkins, a bloody knife in his hand.  Before Eve could process the sight, the thin man grabbed Jenkins and pulled his head back.  In a flash he drew the knife across the immortal’s throat again, widening the horrible gash in his neck even further. 

Blood gushed from the wound, and the man forced Jenkins over a large silver bowl to catch the flow of blood.  To Eve’s utter horror, the thin man leaned over and again sliced into Jenkins’s neck and allowing his blood to pour into the basin, this time nearly decapitating him.  Eve didn’t even hear Cassandra’s scream again or see the disheveled woman as she flew toward the platform.  All Baird could see was the thin man, the knife in his one hand, his other arm forcing her friend’s head back at a sickening, unnatural angle.  The cultist moved to cut Jenkins again.  The Guardian raised her weapon, aimed at the tall man’s chest, and began firing.

Bedivere was struck multiple times.  He dropped the blade in his hand and released Jenkins as he dropped to the floor of the platform.  Jenkins fell over onto his side, unconscious, blood still pouring out of his neck and spreading into a pool around him. 

The moment the shots sounded, the cultists stopped chanting.  Alarmed, they began to look wildly around them.  When they saw their leader fall, many panicked.  Dropping the rocks in their hands, they began to run into the woods, shouting in fear.  The more devout ones, however, turned and rushed the Guardian and the three Librarians, and an all-out brawl ensued.  In the chaos, Cassandra ran unhindered to the platform and climbed onto it.  She ran straight for the fallen Jenkins and threw herself down next to him.

“ _Jenkins_!  _Jenkins_!  Oh, my God!” she half-sobbed.  She dropped her dagger and gently laid her hands on his chalk-white face.  Her eyes fell on the cruel wound in his neck, a great, gaping crimson swath that reached nearly to his spine. 

“ _JENKINS_!”  she screamed again, tears blinding her horrified eyes as she stared down at the awful mutilation.  Her mind went blank with shock and panic, unable to understand that her husband was dying before her very eyes.  _Her immortal husband was dying_!

 _Immortal_.  The Librarian’s mind latched onto the word like a life-preserver.  He was immortal, he can’t be killed!  But how could she stop the flow of blood?  Jenkins had never really explained to her how his body was able to heal itself so much more quickly than a mortal’s body could, or how he was able to survive injuries that would kill anyone else outright.  But the blood—she had to stop the bleeding.  She doubted that even immortals could live without blood for very long. How could she stop the blood flow?  She struggled to make her mind think.  _How to stop blood flow?_   A bandage—she needed a bandage!

Then she heard a low, grating laughter coming from behind her.

Cassandra whirled around on her knees.  Bedivere was pushing himself upright, laughing even as he coughed up blood.  Two large red stains seeped through his dark shirt.

“You are too late, my sweet!” he gasped, his eyes glittering in triumph.  “I have my prize, I have the immortal’s blood!  I will bring the Great God into this world!  He will heal me of these petty wounds, as he has in the past.  I will give him my body.  Then, my sweet, I shall have my... _reward_.”  Even so gravely injured, he leered obscenely at Cassandra.  Then, to her disbelief, he began to rise to his feet.

The immortal’s blood— _Jenkins’s blood_!  Bedivere needed to pour Jenkins’s blood onto the stone to free the monster inside!  Before Bedivere could reach the basin full of her husband’s blood, Cassandra sat back and kicked the basin over with her long legs, spilling all it contained onto the platform. 

“NO!” screeched Bedivere, his eyes widening in panic as the thickish red liquid rushed between the wide cracks of the boards making up the hastily-built platform.  “ _NO_!”  He turned his wild green eyes onto Cassandra.

“ _You little bitch_!” he screamed.  “You will _die_ for this!  I’ll make you suffer until you _beg_ for death!”  Retrieving his knife, Bedivere stood unsteadily and turned toward Jenkins.

“And I’ll start by finishing off your bastard husband!”

“NO!” the Librarian shrieked.  Forgetting the dagger lying next to her, she scrambled to her feet, her only thought being to protect Jenkins.  Teeth bared, she rushed towards Bedivere and threw her body against his, knocking him off-balance.  Bedivere crashed to the ground with Cassandra on top of him, the knife slipping from his grasp.  Hearing it clatter against the wooden platform, Cassandra snatched up the weapon, sat up and, screaming like a vengeful Fury, began stabbing Bedivere wildly, driving the blade into his chest and neck over and over as he struggled against her.  The Librarian kept stabbing him, screaming curses and sobbing the whole time, Bedivere’s movements becoming weaker and weaker.  Soon, he stopped moving altogether.

“Cassandra!”  A voice coming from somewhere behind her called her name, but she ignored it.  She had to stop Bedivere from hurting Jenkins any further!  She raised her arm to strike the unmoving man yet again, but a hand caught her wrist and held it there, and she felt the dagger being wrenched from her hand. 

“That’s _enough_ , Cassandra!  He’s dead!”  Cassandra twisted angrily around to see who was trying to stop her from protecting Jenkins.  The Librarian saw the face of a woman, a woman with blonde hair and kind blue eyes, a woman she should know...

“Eve?” she said faintly.  The woman smiled faintly, and Cassandra remembered where she was and what had happened.  The younger woman burst into tears and threw herself into her friend’s arms.

“Eve!” she sobbed, relief flooding her as she held onto the Guardian tightly.  Baird wrapped her arms around the young Librarian and tried to comfort her.

“It’s ok, Red, you’re safe now,” she said consolingly, tears in her voice.  “We’re all here, no one’s going to hurt you anymore, you’re safe now.”  Cassandra suddenly tore herself away from Eve and turned back to where she had left her husband. 

“Eve, we have to help Jenkins!” she cried.

Jenkins was lying on his back now, still unconscious and surrounded by Flynn, Jacob and Ezekiel, all of them working feverishly on the stricken Caretaker.  Ezekiel had stripped off his own shirt and was in the process of ripping it into strips, which Flynn then used for bandaging as they wrapped the wound to the knight’s neck.  Cassandra pulled herself out of Eve’s arms and staggered over to them, fell to her knees next to Jenkins.  His chest was covered with blood, his skin pale as marble.

“Jenkins!” she wailed, grief-stricken.  She would’ve thrown herself over his body had Jacob not stopped her. 

“Let me go!  _Let me go_!” she screamed at him, squirming wildly in his arms as he held onto her.  “Let me be with him!  Let me be with Jenkins!  LET ME GO!”  Jacob held onto her tightly, though.

“It’s all right, Cass, it’s all right!” he said loudly, trying to get through to her.  “He’s not dead!”  She immediately stopped struggling and simply stared at him.

“It’s true, Cassie—look!”  He turned her around so she could see.  It was true; she could _just_ make out the movement of his chest as Jenkins breathed.  With a shriek of relief she again dropped next to Jenkins, throwing herself across his chest this time, heedless of the blood.  She could hear his heart beating, slowly, faintly, and she burst into tears of joy.  Flynn let her go for a few minutes, then gently lifted her up and away from the injured knight.  She looked into the care-worn face of the Librarian.

“How...how can he still be... _alive_?  There’s so much... _blood_...” she asked in a shaking voice.  Carsen smiled and knelt next to Jenkins.

“He’s immortal,” he said simply.  “He can’t be killed conventionally.  See?”  The Librarian stooped and carefully pulled down the make-shift, blood-soaked bandaging around the Caretaker’s neck.  Cassandra gasped as she saw that the gaping wound had miraculously closed, leaving a long, angry-looking cut that almost completely encircled her husband’s neck.  Though blood was still seeping from the cut, it was miniscule compared to what he had lost earlier.  Flynn replaced the bandage.

“How...?” she asked, wide-eyed.  Flynn sat back on his heels and smiled again.

“He’s immortal,” he repeated.  “All we had to do was bring the edges of the wound together and let Nature take its course.  It sealed itself.  If he hasn’t lost _too_ much blood, he’ll be right as rain again in a few days.”  Cassandra snapped her head to look at Flynn.

“’If he hasn’t lost too much’?” she echoed fearfully.  “How will we know if he’s lost too much?”  Carsen looked into her eyes, his own full of sympathy and sadness.

“The only way we’ll know for sure is...is if he doesn’t die,” he said quietly.  “I’m sorry, Cassandra, I wish I could be more...”  He shrugged helplessly as his voice trailed off, unable to find the right words.  Cassandra’s face collapsed into tears.  Ezekiel stepped forward unexpectedly and slipped an arm around her shoulders.

“Hey, Cassandra, don’t worry!” he tried to say cheerily, but the cracking of his voice betrayed his true feelings.  “You know Jenkins, he’s a tough old knocker, as tough as they come!  All we gotta do is get him back to the Library, get him all patched and magicked up, and before you know it he’ll be his cranky old self again in no time!  Just you wait, you’ll see!”  He gave her a quick hug as he looked around at the others.  “Right, guys?”

“That’s right!” said Eve, stepping forward.  “And the sooner we get him back to the Library, the better.  Jones,” she turned to the young thief.

“You’re the fastest runner; go back to the Annex and dial us up a new door in this location so we don’t have to try and carry Jenkins back down that path in the dark.” 

“You got it!” Jones responded, and shot off into the darkness.

“Stone, Flynn, look around for something we can use as a stretcher for Jenkins, something that he won’t be jostled around too much on as we carry him.”  Jacob hit Flynn’s arm.

“Bound to be somethin’ in that cabin we can use, let’s go take a look,” Stone said, and the two men took off at a run, darting around the bodies of the unconscious cultists that now littered the ground.  Cassandra turned to face Eve.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked, trying to sound brave and in control of her emotions, but failing miserably.  Eve stepped forward and gave Cassandra a tight hug.

“You stay here and take care of Jenkins,” the Guardian said.  “He’s gonna be okay, Red, just like Jones said.  He’s a stubborn old son of a bitch, and I know for a fact that he’s not ready to leave you yet!”  Cassandra half-laughed, half-sobbed for a few seconds, then pulled away from Baird.  She knelt down next to Jenkins and took his cold, limp hand in both of hers, squeezed it tightly.

“I hope so,” she whispered, unable to take her eyes off of his still face.

“I hope so.”


	6. Chapter 6

Once the team had Jenkins safely back in the Annex, they took him straight to the infirmary.  The unconscious man had coughed up up blood from his lungs in alarming quantities the entire way from the mountainside, and continued to do so here.  Cassandra watched, sick with anxiety, as Flynn and Eve turned Jenkins onto his side to prevent him from asphyxiating.  The floor was soon slick with the immortal’s blood, reminding Cassandra of the platform they had just left.  A soft whimper slipped from her throat.  Instantly, Jake and Ezekiel were at her sides, their hands placed gently on her shoulders in encouragement and comfort as all three of the Librarians watched in silence. 

The Librarian and his Guardian made Jenkins as comfortable as possible, then Flynn brought out a huge chest stuffed full of arcane tools and devices. 

“I’ll be right back,” he said, then shot out of the infirmary at a run.  Cassandra stepped forward and gently laid her hand on her husband’s bloody and injured face, stroking it tenderly as she fought back tears.  Out of the blue, coming from deep within her very soul, it seemed, she heard words spoken in a whisper:  _Be strong, my love…_

“ _Jenkins_?” she whispered in return, her eyes locked onto his wan face, her heart suddenly pounding against her ribs.  “Are you here!?” she breathed, desperate to believe it was him, somehow trying to reassure her.  “Don’t leave me, please!”

At that moment Flynn returned, out of breath and clutching a small silver casket to his chest.  He rushed to Jenkins’s bedside and set the casket down on the nearby table with the chest of tools.  He took out a small rock hammer, a stone mortar and pestle, and large jar of dark brown honey from the chest.  He then opened the casket and removed a stone the size of his fist, dark green in color and heavily mottled with large, bright red spots.  Holding the stone reverently in his hands, he looked up at the others.

“The Blood Stone,” he said solemnly, but the name meant nothing to the others.

“The Blood Stone was formed at the crucifixion of Jesus Christ.  When he was stabbed in the heart with the Spear of Destiny, the blood that flowed from the wound fell onto one of the stones lying at the foot of the cross,” he quickly explained.  “The blood soaked into the stone and formed the Blood Stone.  It can be used to heal any blood-related maladies—provided the recipient is worthy, pure of heart.  Otherwise, the Blood Stone will kill.  And if anyone in this world can be called ‘worthy’, I think it’s Jenkins!”  

Carsen placed the Stone on a cloth and took up the rock hammer.  Jacob saw that it was going to be difficult for Flynn to get a clean strike, so he hurried over to help him.  Jacob grasped the Stone firmly between his hands to hold it steady, then wordlessly nodded to Carsen.  With a single, sharp blow, Flynn broke off a small piece of the precious Blood Stone.  He placed the piece into the mortar and began to grind it into powder.

“Jake, get a bowl for me out of that chest and pour some of the honey into it, no more than a quarter of a cup should do it,” he instructed.  By the time Jake had the bowl of honey prepared, the Stone was ready.  Flynn poured the rough powder into the honey and mixed it together.  The powered stone quickly dissolved in the honey, gradually turning it the color of fresh blood.  Flynn thinned the mixture with distilled water until it was completely liquid and he had about a pint’s worth.  He nodded his head in the direction of one of the cabinets nearby.

“I need an IV bottle and a line,” he said.  Jacob instantly brought the items he requested.  Working quickly, Flynn set up the IV live to introduce the mixture into a vein in Jenkins’s arm.

“I always knew that medical degree would come in handy,” he quipped grimly as he taped the line into place.  He stood up and examined the entire line as it began to feed the crimson liquid into Jenkins’s body.

“This will cure him?” asked Cassandra timidly.  Flynn came to stand next to the young woman and put his arm around her shoulders.  She was a complete mess—her clothes were torn and soaked with Jenkins’s blood, her hair was tangled and dirty, her face bruised and swollen.

“I think so,” Carsen said.  “It’s going to take a while, but I think the Blood Stone will do what needs to be done to replace the blood he’s lost, until his body is strong enough to take over again.  It’s some of the most powerful magic in the Library.”  Flynn suddenly started as he remembered something.

“Your finger!” he blurted.  “Oh, my God, Cassandra—I completely forgot about your finger!  Let me see it!”  Without waiting for permission he reached down and grabbed her hand, the others clustering around the pair anxiously.  Everyone had forgotten about the video and the box’s grim contents in all of the excitement.  Flynn held up her hand to examine it, and his jaw, along with everyone else’s, fell open in astonishment.

 

* * *

 

Jenkins slowly opened his eyes, blinking them several times as he tried to focus them on his surroundings.  As he looked around, he recognized the walls of the Library Infirmary.

 _Why am I in the infirmary?_   Jenkins felt a slight movement against his left thigh, and tried to lift his head to see what it was.  A searing pain shot through his neck at the move, and with a gasp he let his head drop back onto the pillow.  When the pain had subsided, he felt around carefully with his left hand, and discovered that Franklin was curled up against his leg, sleeping. 

The immortal realized that he was incredibly thirsty.  His mouth was dry, his tongue feeling like a wad of cotton batting.  He tried to swallow, and again he was struck with an awful pain in his throat that brought tears to his eyes.  Slowly he raised his hand to his neck; he felt a thick gauze bandage that seemed to go all the way around his neck.  _What on earth has happened?_

He lay still for a moment and tried to remember.  Cassandra—something had happened to Cassandra.  Something terrible...

Suddenly memories flooded back to him.  The kidnapping, the awful video, the mountain, Bedivere.

 _Bedivere!_   That bastard!  He wanted Cassandra, wanted to do unspeakable things to his Cassandra!  He had to find her, see if she was all right...  Again, Jenkins tried to raise his head, but the pain was unbearable.  With a loud, ragged gasp he fell back onto the pillow.

“Jenkins?” a faint, sleepy voice came from his right side.  He carefully turned his head, his eyes watering with the pain; there was Cassandra, next to his bed.  She’d been sleeping there the whole time, bent over in her chair, her head resting on the mattress, but she looked anything but rested.  There were large dark circles underneath her exhausted blue eyes.  How many days had she been keeping a vigil at his bedside?  There was still a faint yellowish bruise on her left cheek, her lower lip was still slightly swollen.  As soon as she saw him looking at her, relief flooded her features and she began to cry.  He slowly reached out to touch her face.  He opened his mouth to speak to her, to tell her not to cry, that he was all right, but to his alarm no sound would come.  Seeing his panic, Cassandra took his hand and rushed to reassure him.

“Shhhh, Jenkins, don’t try to talk!” she said soothingly through her tears.  “Your vocal chords were...were cut.”  She choked out the last word with difficulty.  “Flynn says it’ll be a few days yet before they’re healed enough for you to try to speak again.”  She gripped his hand tightly in both of hers and kissed it fervently.

“Oh, Jenkins!  I’ve been so scared!  I was so afraid that you would never wake up again!”  Jenkins had a vague recollection of a knife, the sharp blade biting into his neck, the searing blinding pain.  Cassandra screaming...

Cassandra screaming.  Her _hand_...Bedivere had cut her finger off!  Jenkins pulled his hand from Cassandra’s and weakly grasped her left hand.  He wanted to see for himself what that savage had done to her, wanted to comfort her, apologize to her, beg her forgiveness for not being there to protect her when she needed his protection the most.  As tears came to his eyes, Jenkins forced himself to look at her hand, forced himself to look at the pain and suffering he had failed to prevent.

To his utter amazement, he saw nothing amiss, only Cassandra’s pale, delicate hand, all five digits where they should be, her Sealing ring on her ring finger right where he had placed it months earlier.  Bewildered, the immortal looked up into her eyes and opened his mouth again, trying desperately to speak. 

“It was a trick,” she said, placing her hand over his mouth to quieten him.  “I didn’t know he was making a video at the time, I thought he was just trying to mess with my head.  He put the chisel on my finger, acted like he was going to cut it off so that I would scream and struggle, but then at the last second he moved the chisel onto the arm of the chair.”  She moved her hand from his mouth to stroke his face.

“He took my ring, I didn’t know why at the time, not until Eve showed me the video—I have no idea where he got that other finger.  I don’t _want_ to know!”  Tears fell down her face at the memories, visibly shuddering.

Jenkins took her hand in his again, brought it to his lips and softly kissed it, relieved beyond measure that what he had seen in the video hadn’t been real.  He squeezed her hand to get her attention, then mouthed a word.

_Bedivere?_

Cassandra dropped her eyes.

“He’s dead,” she said flatly.  Jenkins squeezed her hand again.  She knew that he wanted to know what happened.  She kept it as brief as possible.

“Eve shot him,” she said reluctantly.  “After we got you back to the Library and set up here, they all went back to secure everything.  All of the cultists were gone by then, Bedivere’s body was gone, too.  Flynn thinks the cultists took it with them for burial or something.  The stone was still there, though.  Too heavy for them move, I guess.  Flynn and the others brought it back to the Library for safekeeping; so is Carnwennan.  There’s no danger now.”  Fresh tears welled up in her eyes and rolled slowly down her cheeks.

“I was so afraid, Jenkins!” she whispered hoarsely.  “When I saw him...when I saw the knife...”  The pain in her eyes was more than he could bear.  Jenkins very gingerly turned slightly onto his side in the narrow hospital bed, being careful not to arouse Franklin, but the tea dragon only adjusted his position without waking.  Gasping quietly at the pain that flared up angrily in his neck as he moved, Jenkins pulled the blanket back.  He realized then that he was naked beneath the covers, but he didn’t care.  The immortal gently patted the mattress next to him in invitation.  Cassandra smiled sadly at the sweet gesture.

“I don’t think Doctor Baird would like that very much,” she said regretfully.  Jenkins only frowned and patted the mattress harder, more insistently.  Cassandra stood and kicked off her shoes—Screw Doctor Baird!  She started to climb into the bed, but Jenkins reached out and tugged on the sleeve of her blouse.  She hesitated, not sure she understood him.  He tugged on her sleeve again, harder this time, and the Librarian quickly stripped off all of her clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor. 

She slipped carefully into the bed and snuggled up to her husband, pressing her naked body against his.  Jenkins wrapped the blanket and his arm snugly around her, enveloping them both in a warm, soft cocoon, each taking comfort in the warmth and closeness of the other’s body.  Jenkins buried his face in her soft hair, kissing her head tenderly as his eyes slid closed.  Cassandra burrowed into her husband’s arms and closed her eyes, too, breathing in his scent as, finally, for the first time in over a week, she fell into deep, restful sleep. 

 

* * *

 

A few hours later, ‘Doctor’ Eve Baird entered the infirmary to check on Jenkins and see if Cassandra had gotten any sleep.  She stopped in her tracks and stared at the sight that greeted her:  Jenkins and Cassandra were laying together, his arms still tightly wound around his wife.  Franklin was now curled up on the pillows and snuggled against the pair’s heads, also asleep.  All three had the tiniest of smiles on their faces.  Eve noted the pile of Cassandra’s clothes on the floor, and a smile broke out on her own face as well.  The Guardian turned around and quietly left the infirmary.

 

* * *

 

Several days later Jenkins exited the front door of the Annex, making sure to close the door behind him so that Franklin wouldn’t get out of the Annex.  No way was he going to go through _that_ ordeal again! 

He stood for a moment to take in the view of the late evening sun that brushed the tree tops, took in a careful, deep, appreciative breath of the warm summer air.  Scanning the area, he spied Cassandra across the road from the Annex, sitting beneath the willow tree and partially hidden by its trunk.  He started walking slowly over to her.

“Here you are, my dear,” he greeted her quietly, so as not to startle her.  “I’ve hardly seen or spoken to you all day.”  Cassandra turned to face him, and her brow furrowed.

“You shouldn’t be out here, you need to rest!” she snapped irritably.  “You’re still too weak to be up walking around so much!”  The tall man waved away her protests.

“Nonsense,” he said, his voice rough and gravelly.  “I and my voice are getting stronger every day.  I’ll be fit as a fiddle in no time!”  He held his hand out questioningly.

“May I?” he asked.  Cassandra nodded, sullenly scooting over to make room for him in front of the tree’s trunk.  Jenkins dropped onto the ground next her with a soft sigh of relief.  He _was_ getting stronger every day, but he was also still weak and unable to move around like he was used to doing without quickly tiring.  The Librarian noticed his fatigue, but said nothing. 

“I do wish everyone would stop badgering me about my health and treating me like an invalid!” he grumbled.  “And if I have to eat one more ounce of liver I _will_ go absolutely insane!”

“Liver has lots of iron, it’s good for building up your blood,” Cassandra said shortly.  “And we badger you because we _care_!”  The sharp tone in her voice gave Jenkins pause, and he fell silent for a few minutes.

“I’m sorry, Cassandra,” he rasped contritely.  “I don’t mean to be ungrateful.  I suppose I’m still trying to get used to having people around me who truly do care about me.”  He reached out and took her hand, squeezed it gently.  “Forgive me?”

Her fingers barely moved as they squeezed his hand in return before she pulled her hand out of his.  “Of course I do,” she said lifelessly.  They sat quietly for some time, listening to the final songs of the day from the birds mingle with the first songs of the night from the insects, the fading light dulling the landscape around them.

“What’s wrong, Cassandra?” he asked.

“What makes you think anything’s wrong?”  Jenkins’s eyes followed the intermittent glow of a firefly as it moved lazily through the air.

“You’ve grown increasingly distant and quiet over the last few days, ever since I woke up in the infirmary,” he said.  “When I do see you or speak with you, you’re cross, and you seem impatient to get away from me.”  He glanced over at her.  Cassandra was staring at something off in the distance.

“Are you angry with me, Cassandra?  Are you angry with me for not...for not being there to protect you?”  The immortal watched closely as she pressed her lips together and blinked rapidly.  He saw a tear slip from her eye and slide down her cheek.  Cassandra dropped her head suddenly, drawing her knees up and wrapping her arms around them at the same time.  Her face twisted in misery as she burst into tears.  Jenkins instantly put his arm around her thin shoulders as he tried to comfort her.

“Cassandra?” he asked in confusion.  “I’m so sorry, Cassandra!”  She raised her head and looked at him, her face reflecting nothing but unhappiness.

“ _I_ killed him!” she forced out between heaving sobs.  “Eve shot him, but _I’m_ the one that killed him, and I don’t even know how I killed him because I thought he was immortal and I just feel awful about it!  But he was going to kill you or at least try to, he was going to cut your head off and I was afraid you were going to die because how can an immortal live without a head, and I just couldn’t stand by and watch him do that so I stabbed him, but he wouldn’t stop and I just kept stabbing him because he wanted to kill you and I just couldn’t lose you, Jenkins, not now, not after everything we’ve been through!  I just found you and I just couldn’t let him take you away from me, and Eve says I did the right thing but if I did the right thing then why do I just feel so... _BAD_!” 

The words rushed out of the crying woman like a flash flood, tears streaming down her face as she choked out the words, the whole confession ending in an overwhelming fit of sobbing.  Cassandra fell over against the baffled Caretaker, and he instinctively enveloped her in his arms, holding her closely as she wept.  She was speaking of Bedivere.  He realized now that she wasn’t upset with him, she was upset with herself, for killing the ex-knight. 

Jenkins wanted to be angry, wanted to curse that black-hearted traitor to the very bottom of Hell for what he’d done to Arthur, to the fellowship of the Round Table, to all of those innocent souls he had sacrificed to the unspeakable horror trapped in the stone, for what he’d done to his beloved Cassandra.  For lying to Jenkins all those years ago, for using him.  But all Jenkins could find in his heart for Bedivere was sadness and pity.

Soon the Librarian’s tears subsided.  Jenkins retrieved his handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her.

“Bedivere wasn’t a true immortal,” he said quietly.  “He was artificially kept alive by the Elder God trapped in the stone.  As long as Bedivere served it, provided everything it needed and wanted, he was protected.  Bedivere thought he was a valued servant, but he was really nothing but a dependable slave.  The moment he lost his usefulness, the entity would’ve tossed Bedivere aside and let him die.”  

A memory flashed through Jenkins’s mind, then, of the time a very young Galahad had soundly unhorsed a much more experienced Bedivere in a jousting match to win the prize.  He had trembled in fear of the legendary wrath of the older knight, a man who had the King’s ear in all matters great and small.   Instead of fury, though, he only heard the big man roar with laughter as he picked himself up from the ground, clapped the wide-eyed Galahad fraternally on the back with his one remaining hand, warmly congratulating the new knight on a job well-done.  From that day on, Galahad had looked up to Bedivere, sought to imitate him in every way he could.  But it had all been a lie.

Jenkins often saw the same worshipful look on Mr. Stone’s face now, when they were working together on some project or other.   

Jenkins shook his head, pushing the memories away and refocusing his attention back onto Cassandra.

“Every Librarian, at some point in their career, has had to take at least one life,” he growled sadly as she wiped the tears from her face.  “I had hoped that with so many active Librarians now that you might actually be spared that.  Colonel Baird is right, however; you did the only thing you _could_ do.”  He hugged her briefly and kissed her head.

“I know that’s cold comfort, my love, but it’s all I have to offer.”

“I still feel so bad about it, though.  I feel so _guilty_!”

“Because you’ve been taught your entire life that killing is wrong,” he said gently.  “Now, suddenly, you’ve been put in a position where you must choose between killing someone or of watching that person kill someone you love.  And that’s a _terrible_ place to be, because no matter which you choose, you’ll always feel guilt and self-recrimination, you’ll always second-guess your choice.”

“You’ve... _you know_ …more than once,” she said hesitantly, unable to say the words.  “How do live with it?”  Jenkins laid his head against hers and sighed softly.

“I’ve not learned to live with it, exactly,” he answered.  “I _have_ learned to make a kind of peace with it.  I’m afraid you’ll have to do the same if you don’t want to this to consume you.”

“But how do you make peace with something like _this_?” she asked skeptically.  Jenkins held her closer.

“You talk about it.  Don’t keep it inside, bottled up, to fester and poison your soul,” he answered.  “Talk to me, or to Colonel Baird, Mr. Carsen—anyone.  If you don’t feel comfortable talking with one of us, I know one or two professionals outside of the Library who owe me a favor.  They’ll understand your position, they’ll ask no untoward questions.  If you prefer that option, I’ll be glad to make the arrangements.”  Cassandra was quiet for a few moments as she considered his words.

“Can I think about it for a little bit?” she asked.

“Of course, my dear—take as much time as you need.”  She turned her face up to his, her eyes flickering over his throat.  She noticed that his bow tie wasn’t as snugly knotted right now, the wound to his throat was still very tender and sensitive, but he wouldn’t hear of going tie-less.

“Jake blames himself for what happened,” she said, changing the subject.  Jenkins sighed loudly.

“He shouldn’t,” he said sternly.  “He made a mistake bringing his friend into the Library, but what happened with Bedivere is not Jacob’s doing.  He’s far too hard on himself!” 

“You need to talk to him,” Cassandra said.  “He really looks up to you, you know.  You’re like a mentor to him.” 

“Yes, well,” Jenkins said, suddenly uncomfortable.  “Perhaps he shouldn’t.  He may find himself sadly disappointed in his mentor one day.”  Cassandra squeezed his arm.

“He’ll _never_ be disappointed in you,” she countered.  “No more than _I_ will ever be disappointed in you!”  Jenkins grunted softly in response, and they remained silent for several minutes.

“How’s your neck?” she inquired.  “Does it still hurt?”

“Hardly at all now,” he lied to her.

“And your voice?  It’ll recover completely, too, right?  You won’t spend the rest of your life sounding like…?” she dropped her head, unable to say the name of the man she had killed.

“I’ll sound like my old self in no time,” he rasped, honestly, this time.  “The Library is rife with potions and powders that can help with such things.”  Cassandra looked up at him again, this time reaching up to lightly touch the collar of his shirt.

“Can I see?” she asked timidly.  Jenkins silently pulled the knot out of his bow tie and unfastened the first few buttons of his shirt.  He held the collar open so she could see the injury.  It looked much better now, but there was still an angry red line that marked the path of Bedivere’s knife blade.  The Librarian touched the line, lightly tracing it across his throat.

“Another scar,” Cassandra sighed, her voice sad.  But to her surprise, Jenkins only chuckled, the sound like the quiet growling of a bear.

“Just one more for the collection, my dear,” he said.  “Fortunately, my collar will always hide it, and with time it will fade until it’s hardly noticeable at all.”  He gave her forehead a light peck.

“I’ll know it’s there,” she said, then looked up into his brown eyes.  “And I’ll always know that you got it because of me.”  A determined look set itself on her face.

“Jenkins, I want you to promise me that you’ll _never_ put yourself in that kind of danger again, not for me!” she blurted.  “I don’t want you to get hurt or killed on account of me!”  At that the immortal burst into outright laughter, the pain causing him to lightly clutch his throat.  Cassandra stared at him, stung by his reaction.

“What’s so funny?” she demanded.  Jenkins tightened his arm around her shoulders.

“We’ve already had _this_ conversation!” he said, amusement in his eyes.  When Cassandra only stared at him uncomprehendingly, he went to explain.

“Do you remember the Halloween party at the hospital last year?” he prompted.  “And that unpleasantness we ran into with that nasty-tempered edimmu that we found there in one of the patients’ rooms?  The one you dispatched with nothing more than a broken stick?  Do you remember what I said to you after we got back to the Annex, both of us somewhat the worse for wear?”  Understanding dawned on the young woman’s face.

“You wanted me to promise you that I would never risk my life for you again,” she said softly. 

“And do you recall what you said in response to my very sensible request?”

“That I couldn’t really claim to love you if I just stood by and let you get hurt.  Or worse,” she sighed.  Jenkins laid his hand on her cheek.

“And so now you have _my_ answer to _your_ request,” he said gently.  “I will _always_ come to your aid, Cassandra, no matter the cost.  I love you far too much not to.”  He saw the watery glistening of her clear blue eyes, even in the darkness that now surrounded them.  He bent his head and tenderly kissed her eyelids, the saltiness of her tears staining his lips. 

He dropped his head lower and kissed her mouth, softly at first, then more insistently, his tongue gently forcing its way between her soft pink lips to caress hers.  Cassandra suddenly responded with hunger, unexpectedly returning his kiss with a fiery passion as one hand slid to the back of his neck and held it tightly, the other along the side of his face.  The immortal began to feel light-headed as he matched her urgency with his own.  They hadn’t been intimate since before her kidnapping, and even though Jenkins was still recovering, each of them was now realizing how hungry they were for the other, what had happened in the mountains only serving to sharpen their desire for each other.

“We probably shouldn’t go any further,” Cassandra gasped when they finally broke apart.  “You’re still weak…”

“There you go, treating me like an invalid again,” he whispered as he nuzzled her sweet-smelling neck.  “I’ll eat extra liver tomorrow if I have to rebuild my strength!”

“But you _hate_ liver!” she laughed, threading her delicate fingers into his hair.

“I would happily eat an entire mountain of liver for you, my love,” he growled playfully.  “And you would be worth every foul bite!”  He nipped the tender skin behind her ear for emphasis, his lips eventually finding hers again.

Instantly Cassandra was straddling his lap, kissing him with increasing want.  She slipped her hands inside his coat and ran them over his chest and along his sides.  She sensed his desire for her growing with each passing second as he returned her kiss, felt his manhood beginning to bulge through his trousers. 

Her hands hurriedly reached down between them and unfastened his trousers, then tugged his boxers down just enough to free his quickly hardening erection.  He longed for her so much by now that the normally reticent man didn’t even care they outside of the Annex, where anyone could come across them. 

She quickly slipped her panties off and carefully mounted him, easing onto him slowly, teasing him.  She enjoyed hearing the quiet, shuddering sigh that escaped him as she enveloped the entire length of him.  After pausing for a moment, Cassandra began to move up and down on him, slowly at first, then gradually building speed, moaning softly as she felt him inside of her.  She suddenly remembered a trick Eve told her about on one of their girls’ nights out, and smiled wickedly in the dim light.  Without warning she tightened the muscles of her pelvic floor, gently grasping his manhood from within.  She was rewarded with a surprised gasp and a look of wonder on her husband’s face.  She giggled at the expression.

“Did you like that?” she asked coyly as she continued to move on him.  She leaned over and kissed his nose.

“Very much!” he murmured, pulling her top out of her skirt so that he could slide his hands beneath her it and gently massage her breasts.  She repeated the action periodically, each time drawing a small gasp and a smile from the immortal.  She continued to ride him, eagerly sliding up and down the length of his hard member, each of them panting and groaning softly in their pleasure, being careful to not be too loud lest they draw unwanted attention.

Without warning Jenkins took his wife in his arms and pulled her roughly to himself.  He pressed his face to her chest and held her almost too tightly as he succumbed to his climax, grunting loudly and gasping several times through clenched teeth as he tried to keep himself from crying out.  After a few minutes he loosened his arms a bit and his breathing began to even out.  Jenkins fell back against the willow’s trunk, dazed and weak from even that little bit of exertion on his part. 

Cassandra, still on top of him, leaned forward and lay against him while his manhood throbbed inside of her.  As his recovered, she began to place tiny, soft kisses on his throat, following the line of the still-healing cut that had threatened to take him away from her.  She took the hand that he had injured—now completely healed—and kissed the fresh scar where he had cut himself on the glass of the back door.  When she was finished there, she found his mouth and kissed him slowly, deeply.  He responded in kind, wrapping his long arms around her tiny body again.  When they finally parted he gently pushed her back so he could see her face.

“What about you?” he asked, slightly distressed.  Cassandra gave him a puzzled look.

“What about me, what?”

“What about you and your…’pleasure’?” he asked, suddenly bashful.  “You didn’t… _you know_ …”  Cassandra laughed at his inability to actually say the word ‘orgasm’, then planted another kiss on his lips.

“It’s okay; you can just owe me one,” she said, causing Jenkins to smile.

“Have I told you lately that you’re the best wife in the entire world?” he murmured, nuzzling her throat.  “But perhaps after a short rest I might be able to pay my debt…?”  As much as she loved feeling his lips on her body, Cassandra pushed him away.

“I think we better move this inside, then, before Eve has to come bail us out of jail for public indecency,” laughed the Librarian, gently disengaging herself from him and getting to her feet.  As she slipped her panties on, Jenkins slowly hauled himself up after her and quickly put himself to rights again also.  He then offered her his arm for the walk back to the Annex.  When they reached the door Jenkins stopped and pulled her gently into his arms, his lips seeking hers for another deep, lingering kiss.

“Have I told you today how much I love you, Cassandra,” he whispered into her ear, and she smiled.

“I love you, too, sweetheart,” she whispered back.  As she snuggled into her knight’s broad chest, the outdoor light overhead suddenly snapped on, and the Annex door swung open.  Jacob Stone and Ezekiel Jones were standing on the other side of the doorway.

“Do you two have _any_ idea what time it is?” barked Jones, a comically stern look on his face.  “We’ve been worried _sick_ about you!  It’s a _school night_ , for God’s sake!”

Cassandra giggled as the affronted Caretaker straightened to his full height and turned his most withering glare onto the two jokesters.  Stone and Jones immediately became serious.

“Yes, well, seeing as how you have so much time to keep track of Cassandra and me, I trust that that cataloging I gave you two to do this afternoon has been finished?” he rumbled.  Jake and Ezekiel exchanged panicked glances.

“Uh, YEAH…yeah, it’s all under control, man!” blurted the historian, Ezekiel bobbing his head quickly in agreement.

“Yeah, we got it all done…this afternoon!” he chimed in, then hit Stone on the arm.  “Come on, mate, we got some…um…um…”

“RESEARCH!” blared Stone.  “Yeah!  So, uh, sorry, Jenkins, we can’t stand around here all night chit-chattin’, we got research to do!  Come on, Jones, let’s go hit it!”  The pair turned and sprinted back to the workroom and the pile of cataloging still waiting for them there.  Jenkins raised his head, a small smile on his lips.

“I thought as much,” he muttered as he pulled the door shut, leaving him and Cassandra alone again beneath the pale glow of the security light.

“Now, my love—where were we…?” the Caretaker asked, bending to kiss his Librarian again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
